


Adam and Joe

by genteelrebel



Series: Adam and Joe [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Consent Issues, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Homophobia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Multi, Partner Betrayal, Romance, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 274,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3481577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, a young Watcher named Adam Pierson was sent to Seacouver to help Joe Dawson start a bookstore.  This is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The non-con warning is for Chapter Eight, after Kronos comes on the scene. I'll warn you again when it gets closer.
> 
> Spoiler warnings are due for, um, pretty much the entire series. Certainly for all the Methos episodes and many of the others, too.
> 
> Thanks are owed to many and can be found in the end notes of the final chapter.

**

Prologue

**

“And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and the sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.” ~Kahlil Gabran, _The Prophet_

“Love will enter cloaked in friendship’s name.” ~Ovid 

_  
**City of Seacouver, September 5th, 1986** _

The book shop was, undeniably, a mess.

Methos, currently known as Adam Pierson, recent Watcher Academy graduate and newly appointed assistant researcher, swore gently under his breath. He could barely get the book shop’s dirty glass door open. A pile of paperback novels had tipped over inside, clogging the doorway. From what Methos could see, the books were mostly trash, but there were a few gems mixed in that made Methos's bibliophile heart shudder at the cavalier treatment. He pushed the door open as gingerly as he could. It didn't help. Despite his best efforts, a few covers wedged themselves under the door when he opened it, and as he snaked through the tight opening Methos heard the distinctive sound of paper tearing. Damn!

He wasn't the only one swearing. As he let the door swing shut behind him, Methos heard several very pointed four-letter-words coming from the back. It was plain to see that the falling book epidemic had spread throughout the shop. Near the back, a man was stooping awkwardly amid a scattered pile of very old encyclopedias, sucking on the bruised fingers of one hand while he clutched a four-footed cane in the other. Methos coughed gently. The man jumped. "Holy shit!" he said as he turned around, still waving his aching fingers. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Paris," Methos said, extending his hand. He did it in such a way that the other man couldn't fail to spot his Watcher tattoo, so recently imprinted on his wrist. "You must be Joseph Dawson."

"Guilty as charged." The other man offered his wounded right hand, thought better of it, offered his left hand, thought better of that, then settled for shrugging sheepishly. "You have me at a disadvantage, Mr..."

"Pierson. Adam Pierson." Methos gestured at the encyclopedias scattered around the man's feet. "Aren't those supposed to go on the shelves?"

"Of course they are. The question is, which shelves?" the man said wryly, then blinked. "Adam Pierson? Wait a minute...I know that name." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "Oh, shit! Adam Pierson. I *knew* I knew who you were. You're Don Salzer's new assistant, aren't you."

"Guilty as charged," Methos replied, wondering why this fact merited yet another four letter word. "Is there a problem, Mr. Dawson? I was under the impression that you knew I was coming. Don said it was all arranged..."

"Call me Joe," Joe said automatically, and then started to laugh. "Yeah, yeah, Don told me you were coming. I just never thought he was *serious*." He dissolved into chuckles. "Tell me, kid. How's it feel to be a poker I.O.U.?"

"Poker I.O.U.? I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. Daw...ah, Joe. I mean Joe."

Joe's grin broadened. It was quite an infectious expression. Methos felt his own lips moving in response, despite the fact that he didn't have the faintest idea what the joke was. "Don and I have been poker buddies for years," Joe said, apparently by way of explanation. "The last time I was in Paris, the game got a little...heated."

Methos still didn't get it. He tried to look intelligent. "Yes?"

"Yes." Joe nodded. "Both of us were practically down to our underwear by the final hand. I put up a ten-year-old bottle of Bushmill's I'd been saving, and Don threw the temporary loan of his eager young grad student into the pot. Needless to say, I won." Joe laughed. "I never thought the old bastard would actually pay up!"

"I see." Methos maintained his bland smile, though inwardly he was seething. (Don! Damn you, my friend. Throw me into a poker pot, will you? Well, I won't pretend it's the first time...but it is the first time this particular century. Just wait until I get back to Paris.) "I was under the impression that I was here to help you start a bookstore."

"Oh, you are! You are!" Joe said eagerly, placing a friendly hand on Methos's shoulder. He waved expansively at the shambles around him. "As you can see, I need a lot of help."

This, Methos reflected, was the understatement of the year. It wasn't that the other Watcher hadn't tried. Joe had clearly been struggling to put the books into some kind of order before he shelved them. It was just that the result of this "order" was even crazier than if Joe had just sorted the books at random. Methos actually winced when he saw a collection of Tolstoy novels in the same stack as a dozen bright pink copies of Jacqueline Susann's 'Valley of the Dolls.' "It does rather look like a bomb went off."

"I know." Joe's sunny expression darkened. "I *told* headquarters it was no good, putting me in charge of a bookstore. I'm hopeless. But they insisted. After all, the Immortal activity in Seacouver has really heated up lately. The Rainy City might even end up being the center of the Gathering."

Methos nodded, inwardly cringing. Paris, thanks to Darius's calming influence, had been a remarkably quiet town since the War. The last thing Methos had wanted to do was leave it for the new Immortal Hunting Ground. But Don had insisted…and there was really no way Methos could have refused and still kept his cover. After all, what starving European grad student would possibly turn down an all-expenses-paid trip to the Land of Opportunity? Especially an eager young Watcher with a chance of seeing real Immortals in action? (Don! I'm going to make you pay for this. Just you wait and see.) "Anyway, the Watcher Council decided we needed a more permanent base of operations here," Joe continued. "And so...here we are."

There they were, indeed. Methos was very familiar with the Watcher's habit of setting up used bookstores as fronts for their operations. Police were unlikely to raid such establishments, and no one seemed to care that the owners were a bit eccentric, or ever noticed that said eccentrics liked to keep medieval manuscripts and civil war swords stashed in their back rooms. If your town had a dusty, musty used bookshop that ran on irregular hours and perpetually stayed in business despite the fact that fifty cents was a major sale, the chances were good the owner wore a tattoo on his wrist. But...

But the cover depended on the person in charge actually knowing something about the book business. The shop didn't have to make a profit; the Watcher General Fund took care of operating expenses and salaries. But it did have to be organized enough to fool your average book lover. Joe Dawson was clearly not the man for the job.

Unfortunately, he had no choice. Methos knew that without asking. As the newly appointed Head of Operations in the Pacific Northwest, Joe had a lot of responsibility, but no real power. There was no way he could bargain with the Council the way the leader of a more established territory could. And his underlings were still mostly field agents, people who knew even less about the book business than he did. No, Joe was stuck. 

And now, so was Methos.

Methos sighed. Well, as long as he was here, he might as well see what he could do. He hated to see books of any kind being mistreated. "She's got good bones, at least," Methos said, looking admiringly at the store’s sturdy wooden shelves, vintage light fixtures, and...most striking...the stairway to the second floor. "Don would commit murder for all this space. He's been wanting to expand Shakespeare and Co. for ages. The Council keeps promising him a building with a second floor, but you know how they are."

"Yeah, kid. I know how they are,” Joe nodded. “We've only got the space we do because we're supposed to set up a serious research wing sometime next year. Some guys from London are coming next week to see about installing security and climate control for the older Chronicles."

"Really?" Methos's interest was piqued. If this store was going to be more than just a front for field operations, Methos might actually have something to contribute. He could see to it that there was decent lighting for the research staff, for one thing. And some comfortable chairs. The ones in the Great Library in Paris hadn't been changed since the last time he'd worked for the Watchers, back in 1910, and they still had a way of leaving splinters in the bums of the unwary. Methos looked around himself with new respect, imagining the possibilities...

And his eyes lit on a pile of old children's books, lying forlornly in a corner. Joe's face became oddly wistful. "Don did say that you were the man for the job," he said. "You worked in a couple of used bookstores while you were getting your bachelor's, right?"

"That's right." No point in mentioning which degree it was, or even which decade--oh, the things he had done to earn a few dollars during the sixties! "I'll be glad to lend a hand, Joe."

"Good." Joe checked his watch. "It's almost two. Tell you what. Let's work for a few hours, and then knock off early, all right? I know this little place that has the *best* local brews."

Methos blinked. "Beer?"

"The best you ever tasted, my friend," Joe said confidently, and smiled at the expression on his new co-worker’s face. The kid was doing an excellent imitation of dog who had just heard the treat bag being rattled. If it had been physically possible, his ears would have pricked. Joe nodded in pleasure—it was good to see that the young still had appreciation for the finer things in life. "I think we're going to get along just fine."

And they did. Actually, they got along *much* better than fine.

***

Methos hadn't been sure at first how diplomatic he needed to be about Joe's ignorance, how tactful he would have to be with his suggestions. One of the greatest disadvantages of starting a new, youthful persona was the need to pretend he knew less than he did, just to salve the egos of his superiors. Fortunately, Joe quickly put that concern to rest. The bearded Watcher was out of his league, and he knew it. Joe didn't seem to have the least bit of trouble letting his supposedly "less-experienced" colleague take the lead while he watched and learned. He spent that first afternoon as a kind of glorified gopher while Methos catalogued and sorted, but Methos could see it wouldn’t be that way forever. Joe asked a lot of very intelligent questions, and in between he watched everything Methos did. Methos knew that the sharp brown eyes missed very little, and it pleased him. Almost he could imagine that he was back in Paris, working with Don.

A little before closing on that first day, Methos discovered that there was one small corner of the store he didn't need to rescue. It was filled with music books and a collection of albums on vinyl-- and unlike every other part of the shop, the items there were neatly organized and cleaned. There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust to be seen. "Well, I guess we know where *your* heart lies, Joseph Dawson," Methos said as he ran his fingers over the titles, noting that most of the records were vintage blues albums and most of the books were instructional texts for acoustic guitar. "Do you play?"

To Methos’s surprise, the formerly confident Watcher suddenly became quite self-conscious. "A little."

"Just 'a little'?" Methos raised his eyebrows. "The calluses on your fingers say differently, Joe."

Startled, Joe looked down at his hands. After a moment he smiled. "Damn Watcher eyes," he said good naturedly. "I forgot. I really should know better than to try to lie to a kid fresh out of the Academy. I suppose you can even tell me which hand I fret with?"

"The left."

"Kid graduates from Watcher Observation Training, he thinks he's Sherlock Holmes," Joe groused, but he wasn't displeased. He nodded at Methos's hands. "You have some pretty impressive calluses yourself."

"Ah." Methos pulled back as if burned, curling his fingers around his palms. He'd been out of the Game for a very long time, it was true. But any Immortal who didn't keep in training was a dead Immortal, and his daily sword practice couldn't help but etch its way into his skin. "I'm afraid those aren't from strings, Joe."

"No?"

"No." Methos put on his best sheepish-student face, the one every college freshman uses when he needs to explain why his term paper is going to be two weeks late. "Actually, I'm a bit embarrassed about this, but...uh...they're from swords. I always was a bit of a medieval weapons buff, and after the Academy...well, a couple of the other students from my year decided to start a fencing club. We don't use heavy swords, just foils and such, but it helps us understand Them a little more...”

He trailed off, hoping he’d achieved the right mix of embarrassment and enthusiasm. Joe studied him carefully. "Adam," he said slowly. "You don't have any ideas about trying to get as good as an Immortal with those swords, do you? Maybe even Challenging one to combat?"

"Good heavens, no!" Methos let his eyes go wide. "Me, Challenge one of Them? Joe, I'm the most awkward thing with a foil you've ever seen! My librarian friend Lindsey beats me almost every time we spar, and she's only four foot eight. Mostly I'm interested in the psychology of the conflict, and the history. You can learn a lot about an Immortal's past if you can recognize the moves he uses." He frowned. "You don't mean to tell me that there are Watchers out there arrogant enough to actually Challenge an Immortal, do you?”

Joe relaxed visibly. "Oh, you'd be surprised," he said. "It doesn't happen often, but yeah...every now and then some sword-struck kid gets cocky enough to want to prove himself in the ultimate way. We try to screen for that kind of psychological abnormality, but every once in a while..." Joe stopped. "Well, there will be time enough for you to learn about that later. Right now, I want some dinner and a drink. You game?"

"Absolutely."

That first day started a pattern that held for the rest of Methos's time in Seacouver. In the morning, Methos would get up and go to the bookstore. Joe would bring in coffee and breakfast--god, the things that passed for pastry in the United States!-- and then they would spend the first few hours making plans. Methos talked Joe into stocking a full collection of foreign-language literature: he thought they were close enough to the University for there to be a good market for the books, and exploring them would be a convenient cover for overseas agents who wanted to conduct Watcher business unseen. Joe, in turn, talked Methos into expanding the used vinyl collection. "After all, there are still lots of classics that will never come out on cassette," he said. "Some of them are worth real bucks."

Methos agreed and printed up a few posters to put on the street, explaining the kinds of items they were looking to buy and sell. Almost before he knew it, the shop had attracted quite a following. Everyone, from the local dirt-poor college students to the Midas-rich private collectors downtown, quickly discovered that Juniper Street Books was The Place for that hard-to-find album or book. Over the next few weeks the shop quickly evolved from being just another Watcher cover to a store with a highly devoted clientele...and it hadn't even opened yet. "If we keep getting this kind of interest, we might just end up making a profit!" Joe said exultantly one afternoon, when a wealthy science fiction buff had put in a standing order for every Theodore Sturgeon title they could lay their hands on. "Can you imagine? The members of the Watcher Council will fall right off their neatly upholstered leather chairs."

Methos, busy scrutinizing an old translation of "The Five Rings", looked up. "They certainly will," he agreed. "A Watcher cover operation making a genuine profit? It's unheard of, Joe." Joe beamed. Methos smiled slyly. "Do you think we're enough in the black to pay for extra cheese on today's pizza?"

"You know, I really think we are." Joe flipped him a ten dollar bill over the counter. "Better get some extra pepperoni, too."

Each afternoon they would split the ritual lunch time pizza and then head back to work. Methos usually ended up going to the shelves to catalogue and clean, and Joe went to the phones. The man was a natural birddog—and now that Joe had decided the store was Really Going To Be Something, he left no stone unturned in his quest for valuable merchandise. When he turned up a first edition Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Methos had to blink back tears. The book was inscribed to "My Dear Doctor Adams, Who Can Spin a Taller Tale Than I" in Twain's own hand, and Methos had long believed that the teeth of time had claimed it. They put the book in a place of honor, surrounded by its own glass case.

Of course, it wasn't all treasure. Joe also turned up his share of former bestsellers and other flotsam, including many more of the ubiquitous pink "Valley of the Dolls". Methos took over the phone, and most of their rejects were taken in by the local Catholic elementary school as fodder for a charity book sale, but Sister Cooke roundly refused to take anything written by Jacqueline Susann. Methos and Joe ended up giving The Dolls a shelf of their very own, and laughed every time they added to it.

They closed up a little after six each day, tired but happy. And then Joe would take Methos out for a drink.

***

It didn't take long for this to become Methos's favorite part of the day. Joe insisted on "showing him Seacouver." After a few token protests, Methos gave in; Joe really did know where the best beer in the city was drunk and the best food eaten. Then Joe discovered that Methos liked the blues, and the tours became a musical pilgrimage. Together, Methos and Joe hit every underground club within the city limits. They soon became a familiar sight on the streets of Seacouver: the tall, lanky kid and the slightly limping middle-aged man, on a quest to find all the good beer and good music Seacouver could provide.

The good company, they already had.

"So you've never even wanted to try field work, huh," Joe said one evening, about three weeks into the odyssey. They were sitting in a smoky corner of a dive near the waterfront. Unusually for one of Joe's pilgrimage sites, the beer tasted like watered ammonia and the atmosphere was worse, but the singer had a smoky contralto that could make a grown man weep. She was between sets; Joe never would have spoken otherwise. Respect was due where respect was due, even in a place like this.

"No, Joe. I haven't." Methos had been expecting the question. Actually, he was a bit surprised that it hadn't come up before now. Joe clearly thought that every Watcher's true place was in the field. "I'm not cut out for the cloak-and-dagger stuff, you see. I'm really very happy in research."

"Are you sure?" Joe asked. "I think you're not giving yourself enough credit. You've got everything you need to be a great field agent, after all. You're young, healthy, respectful, smart--" Methos tried to look gracefully embarrassed. Joe leaned towards him across the sticky table. "I could talk to one of the higher-ups about getting you an assignment, you know. With a word in the right ear, we could get you transferred to Seacouver permanently."

"No!" Methos almost spilled his beer. Oh yes, that was *just* what he needed--a permanent relocation to the City of A Thousand Challenges. So far, he'd been lucky. No Immortals had come near the bookshop, and every time he'd felt the Buzz while he was out and about with Joe he'd been able to suggest ducking into a restaurant or store to get out of the weather. But if he lived here permanently, and was asked to follow one of Them full time? Disaster. It didn't even bear thinking about. "No," he repeated more calmly. "I'm afraid dusty libraries and museums are my natural habitat, Joe. My true loves are the older Chronicles, as you know. All that marvelous history!" Joe looked like he was going to argue, so Methos slipped in his ace card. "I'll tell you what I would like, though. If you really want to do me a favor with the Council."

"What?" Joe said eagerly. "If I can swing it, it's yours."

Methos smiled into his beer. "There's a Chronicle that the Council has ordered closed," he said. "They don't think there's enough evidence that the Immortal in question ever existed. But I've done some poking around on my own, and I'm very sure he did. I would love to have the file re-opened, and be put in charge of researching it further."

Joe looked interested. It clearly wasn't the favor he'd been expecting, but he was game. *A good man, Joe Dawson,* Methos thought. *He cares more about doing something nice for "the kid" than increasing his number of field agents. People with that kind of natural generosity get rarer every year.* "That doesn't sound like too much to ask,” Joe said. “Who's the Immortal?"

"Methos."

"Methos? The Oldest Immortal?" Joe stared at him. "Adam, I think you've lost some of your marbles. Methos was classified as a myth long before I went to the Academy. If he ever lived at all, he was killed off by one of the baddies centuries ago. Probably by the Kurgan."

Methos bit back a caustic reply. *The Kurgan, Joe? Ah, how my myth has tarnished of late! If you don't think I could outwit *that* sad excuse for an upright hominid, you don't know much about me. Besides, if the Kurgan had possessed even a tenth of the power of my Quickening, there's no way that even sadder excuse for a Highland Hero Connor MacLeod could have beaten him. Trust me...* But he said none of this. Instead, he began giving Joe the arguments he'd accumulated in favor of Methos's existence. They were the same arguments he'd been planning to lay before the Paris Council a few years into the future, when Adam Pierson's persona wasn't quite so green. When he finished, Joe looked thoughtful. "Huh," he said. "Well, it certainly sounds like you've done your homework, kid. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?"

Methos pasted on his best mournful look. "I've tried, Joe," he said, carefully pitching his voice to be just short of a whine. "Truly I have. But nobody wants to listen to a lowly research assistant."

"Huh." Joe said again. "Well, I can't make you any promises, Adam. But I'll do the best I can."

"Thanks, Joe. That means a lot."

Methos looked over at the band. The drummer and the guitarist were still absorbed in their between-sets drink, the contralto busily flirting with the bartender. It would take a while for the music to resume. He might as well change the subject. "So, Joe," Methos said. "Speaking of field work...who's been watching your assignment while you've been playing in the bookstore with me? Did H.Q. assign a temporary?"

Joe smiled warmly. "It does seem like playing, doesn't it, kid? It's all because of you, of course. I never would have thought starting a store would turn out to be this much fun," he said, then sipped his beer and frowned. "No, H.Q. didn't assign a temporary. My assignment's pretty much out of the Game. I make visual contact once a week or so, and that's enough."

"I wouldn't count on it staying that way, if I were you," Methos said with feeling. "No Immortal is ever truly 'out of the Game'. Especially in Seacouver."

"Duncan MacLeod just might be the exception, Adam. He's involved with a mortal woman, and they seem happy enough. I don't think he wants to do anything to jeopardize the time they have together. He hasn't accepted a single Challenge since they met." Joe sighed. "Right around the time *I* got him as my field assignment, actually, back when I was young and eager. I remember thinking how lucky I was...I mean, how exciting could you get? A student of Connor MacLeod, the man who took the Kurgan? Man, I thought it would be Quickenings every night."

"You're disappointed?"

"Hell, no! I grew out of that real quick," Joe answered. "Adam, if you're serious about staying in research, you'll probably never get the chance to learn this first hand, but... Immortals aren't anywhere near as alien as the Council would like you to think. They're people, just like us. And...don't repeat this please; I know it's almost heresy to say so...but it's possible to get fond of the good ones. You can even start thinking of Them as family.” Joe leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands over the battered table. “I *like* Duncan MacLeod, Adam. I'm glad he's out of danger. For the moment, at least."

Methos did not reply. But the fondness that had been growing in his heart for Joseph Dawson ever since they'd met suddenly turned into something deeper. Very few Watchers ever got to the point of admitting that Immortals were "people, just like us". Joe was truly one in a million.

Methos was lucky he'd met him.

***

The weeks flew by, Methos having a much better time than he'd ever thought possible. The bookstore was rapidly becoming a joy to walk into. It was the sort of place Methos could have lost himself in for hours even if he wasn't working there, and his evenings out with Joe were some of the happiest he'd ever had. Methos arranged to have his original return-trip ticket exchanged for one leaving two weeks later, then again for a month after that. Quite simply, he wasn't in any hurry to leave. The combination of intriguing work and good companionship was making him happier than he'd been in years.

Then came the phone call from Don. It was good natured enough. Don simply wanted to remind him of whose assistant he really was, and tell him about the new project they'd begin the moment Methos returned to Paris. But it had the same effect on Methos that a bucket of cold water would have had on a nesting hen. He stalled for almost a week before he told Joe, making all kinds of excuses: Joe couldn't possibly organize the Japanese lit without him, and Methos needed to put more time into designing the new security system. But at last he could put it off no longer. "Hey, Joe," he said over their morning coffee and donut, forcibly casual. "I had a phone call from Don a few days ago."

"Hey, that's great!" Joe said enthusiastically. "I should have called him myself to tell him how things were going. We've been so busy I kept forgetting. How's he doing?"

"He sounds very well, Joe. They're getting ready to start this big project over there, a completely new way of organizing the older Chronicles. It sounds fascinating." Methos took a deep breath. "Don would like me back before they start on it. Would it be all right if I got a flight out on Friday?"

Joe looked blank. "But--we're going to have the Grand Opening the week after Thanksgiving," he said weakly. "You don't want to miss that, do you? After all the work you've put in?"

Methos looked at the floor, not wanting the canny mortal to glimpse his true emotions. No, of course he didn't want to miss the Grand Opening. He especially didn't want to miss Joe's look of pride when he showed the place off to his superiors. Such moments of pure, unadulterated happiness were all too rare in life, and Methos had intended to fully enjoy watching Joe make the most of his. But it wouldn't do to annoy Don, either. Methos badly needed the older Watcher's friendship and patronage, and deep down he knew he'd been playing hooky long enough. "We've finished all the hard work, Joe," he said reasonably, much more reasonably than he felt. "The only things left to do are cosmetic: painting, putting up signs, that sort of thing. And your permanent staff will start arriving right after the holiday. You won't need me." Joe looked doubtful. Methos forced a smile. "Joe, the store is your baby. I was just a poker I.O.U. sent to help you out, remember?"

"You've done a damn sight more than 'help'," Joe said fervently. "This place would still be nothing but one great big dusty pile, with the Zane Grey mixed in with the American history texts, if you hadn't arrived. I stiffed Don on that poker pot, kid. You've been worth a lot more to me than any damn bottle of scotch ever could. You have to know that." Methos looked away, embarrassed. Joe sighed heavily. "But if you have to go, I guess you have to go. I know well enough that those damn libraries are where your heart really lies. What's this about a new system for organizing the Chronicles?"

"I don't really know," Methos answered truthfully. "Don wants to me to take a good look at all the older Chronicles, help him synopsize them so they are easier to index, but he didn’t say exactly what that new index would be.” Methos shrugged pensively. “I hope I can talk him into putting at least a few of the files on computer. It’s about time that the Watchers joined the modern age."

"Computers? Bah," Joe said dismissively. "They'll never be more than damned electric beeping boxes, kid. You can tell Don that from me." Methos shrugged, knowing that Don already agreed. Joe looked at him sadly. "Tell you what," he said. "Stick around through the weekend at least. I'd like to go over the inventory with you one last time. And then on Sunday night we'll go out and paint the town red. I have a special treat in mind."

Methos quickly agreed. As the rest of the work day went by, he kept feeling Joe's eyes on his back, but whenever he turned around the other Watcher had his nose in the shelves. Methos dismissed the feeling as a product of his own unhappiness, and booked his flight for the following Monday afternoon.

***

Sunday night Joe took him to what had become their favorite haunt, a small bar only a few blocks away from Juniper Street. Methos was a little startled when he realized where they were headed. Sunday night was always Amateur Night at The Broken String. And while the amateurs who played the little bar were several cuts above what you got elsewhere in the city, Methos wasn't sure the place was really worthy of a last grand night on the town. 

But when they got within a block of the bar, the sounds spilling out into the street told Methos that the evening was going to be special, after all. Classic rock, expertly played, was filling the air, accompanied by the whoops and shouts of a very enthusiastic crowd. Methos looked at Joe quizzically. The Watcher shrugged. "Friends," he said.

"Friends?" Methos asked, but Joe already had the door open. The roar of applause that swept out completely drowned Methos’s question. Very curious now, Methos followed Joe into a bar that was packed wall to wall with smiling people. As the next song began, the audience all started swaying and rocking to the beat, moving almost as one. Joe carefully led Methos through the crowd to a corner, beaming the whole time, and when they got there he motioned for Methos to put his ear next to his mouth. "Good, huh?" he shouted over the din.

"Yes!" Methos shouted back. When he realized Joe couldn't hear him no matter how loudly he yelled, he smiled and gave a thumbs-up. Joe nodded happily and re-faced the stage, swaying as best as his prosthetics and cane would allow. Methos watched him for a moment, reflecting on just how handsome Joe could look when he wasn’t under stress. Then he turned his attention to the stage.

The five musicians were all around Joe's age. The outfits they wore ranged from ripped jeans and an American flag T-shirt on the drummer to a full three-piece suit on the pianist, and the music they played was both joyful and infectious. Methos let the rhythm take him and began to sway himself, feeling warm and safe in the jubilant crowd. No one, he reflected rather sadly, ever played like this in Paris. Quite possibly, no one had ever played like this anyplace but here.

When the set finished the crowd surged toward the stage as one, laughing and shouting its approval. Methos took a quick glance to make sure Joe hadn't been toppled—no, Joe was still on his feet, and moving forward with the rest of the crowd—and then ducked out to visit the men's room. When he returned, Methos was surprised to see that Joe had somehow managed to make it through the sea of people to the foot of stage, and was kicking at the air as the five band members lifted him bodily onto it. Apparently Joe's friends had seen him in the crowd, and they were not about to let him get away. Methos laughed aloud at Joe's expression. He started to make his way up, gently pushing through the wall of bodies.

As he drew near, Methos saw the lead guitarist trying to press a spare guitar into Joe's hands. "No, no, no!" Joe protested. "No way are you conning me into playing tonight!" He pushed the guitar away and straightened his shirt, now very rumpled by the band's attentions. "I'm *with* someone, for Pete's sake!"

"Yeah, we noticed!" said the skinny base player, and the rest of the band roared with raucous laughter. The base player high-fived the suit-wearing pianist, who turned to Joe with a smirk. "We sure did!" said the pianist. "He's pretty cute, Joe. Tall, dark, and handsome, just the way you like ‘em. But are you sure he's allowed out on school nights?"

Methos, startled, stopped in his tracks. He was suddenly very glad that the stage's shadow hid him from view. "Shut up!" Joe hissed, eyes anxiously lifting to the men's room door. "It's not like that. Adam's just a nice kid who's helping me out with some work, that’s all. He's going back to Paris tomorrow, for Christ's sake."

"And you brought him *here*?" This time it was the drummer, wiry, red haired, and sporting a large American eagle tattoo on his arm, who had spoken. He sounded more astounded than sarcastic. "Jesus Christ, Joe! With that little time, you should have taken him back to your place, or booked a room at the Plaza. Haven't you seen the way he looks at you?"

"Give it up, John," Joe said angrily. "Haven't you got anything better to do than gossip about your friends? I told you already. It's not like that."

"Uh-huh." The lead guitarist, an extremely large bear of a man with a very impressive beard, looked Joe up and down. Joe, Methos was quite startled to see, actually blushed. "Well, if you *want* it to be ‘like that' before he leaves, my man, you'd better take this and play." Quite deliberately, he opened his hand and dropped the guitar he was holding. Joe, who couldn't stand to see a good instrument mistreated the same way Methos couldn't stand to see a book left open with its pages spread, fumbled for it automatically. He caught it just before it hit the floor. The bear nodded in satisfaction. "Come, friends," he said to the rest of the band. "Let's give this man a solo. True love needs all the help it can get." And he got up and walked to the mike.

Methos thought he saw Joe cursing, but it was too late. His big "friend" had already taken the mike, and someone was dimming the lights in response. Methos used their cover to slip back to his spot in the corner. "Neighbors," the guitarist addressed the crowd, "you've been a great audience for us, and we thank you for that, with all the heart that's in us. Now I want you to be an even better one while my good friend Joe here plays a solo. The two of us served together in 'Nam ..."

There was a subtle hiss from the crowd. Methos winced, amazed at humanity's ability to hold onto pain. It was 1986, for god's sake. Just how long were the wounds of that particular war going to last? But the musician at the mike didn't react. He just continued, very patiently, "...and I know that ain't very popular with some of you, but that's where we met, and nothing we can do is going to change it now. Joe here was a good friend to me out in the jungle, and an even better one when we met up again in the hospital, after the landmines did their work. I gave up a finger and some toes--" for the first time, Methos noticed that the guitarist only had three fingers and a thumb on his right hand-- "and Joe here gave up both his legs, but we never gave up our spirits. After a while, we figured that life would be pretty good if we could spend the rest of it makin' music instead of makin' war, and so..." He turned to Joe. "So please put your hands together for Mr. Joseph Dawson!"

A spotlight swung to illuminate Joe. In the sudden brilliance, it was easy to tell that Joe's eyes were glistening. He rubbed at them awkwardly and started tuning the guitar, a sour note slowly grading to true in the pin-drop silence of the room. Methos waited, suddenly feeling unbearably apprehensive. Joe looked as if he didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing...

But he did. And before another full minute had passed, every one else in the bar knew it, too.

*God,* Methos thought, stunned. *I never even suspected.* Joe hadn't played for him even once in all the time they'd spent together, and Methos had never guessed that his friend was hiding so much talent. He watched, awestruck, as Joe's hands literally danced over the strings, producing a blues riff that shook the room and frolicked with a life of its own. *Just one more of tonight's many surprises*, Methos thought, too amazed to do anything but listen to the music and watch the big hands play. This had to be a dream. It had to be.

But it wasn't. Joe played on, and the crowd was utterly silent, as rapt as Methos was. Then he began to sing, and Methos was stunned all over again. The rough, gravelly voice reached out to him across the crowd; it was almost as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist, and Joe was singing for him alone. Methos closed his eyes and just let himself go, blending into the voice and song, concentrating on soaking up the memory. 

Whatever happened next, he knew this was a night he'd never want to forget.

***

Neither the crowd nor the band would let Joe Dawson stop playing. After two songs, Joe quit trying. He was going to be on that stage for the rest of the night, no matter how much he wanted it to be otherwise. He shot an anguished look at Adam, who was standing all alone in the corner of the bar. The young Watcher looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Joe’s heart throbbed in apprehension. Damn it all, the kid *had* been in the men's room while Smoky and the boys were teasing him, hadn't he? If Adam had overheard and decided to walk out, Joe knew he would never forgive them...

But Adam didn't walk out. After the first song the kid seemed to relax, closing his eyes and nodding his head along with the music. Joe slowly allowed his body to relax, too. It *was* good, jamming with the guys again. Everyone on the stage with him now had known him and loved him through some of the worst times in his life, and the music couldn't help but reflect that. Smokey was looking at Adam; when he caught Joe watching him he winked, and Joe felt his heart soften. Ah, hell. All his friends wanted was for Joe to be happy. It wasn't *their* fault he didn't have a snowball's chance in Hades with the kid. Joe shook his head and threw his soul into the playing.

The rest of the evening flew by. Before Joe knew it, the last song had been played and his fellow musicians were clapping him on the back, congratulating him on a night well spent. Joe rubbed his sweaty face and blinked, having forgotten how the on-stage trance could make hours seem like minutes. Guiltily, he scanned the thinning crowd. Most of the patrons had evaporated soon after the last note, but Adam was still there, long legs crossed as he sat on a stool near the bar. Joe handed his borrowed guitar back to Smokey. "I have to get going," he said.

The big man looked into the shadows to where Adam was waiting, and nodded. "Yeah, man. You sure do," he agreed, and gathered Joe into a bear hug. "Be happy, Joe."

Joe shook his head, but he hugged back with all his might. He embraced each of the other band members in turn, then slowly made his way down the stairs and across the rapidly emptying room. "Hey, Adam," he greeted. "You ready to go?"

Adam nodded and slipped off the bar stool without saying a word. Joe felt his fear return. Oh, shit. Maybe the kid had overheard, after all. "I'll go get our coats."

Outside, it was cold, but clear. The near-perpetual Seacouver rain had taken a break for once. There was no cab in sight, so Joe turned his steps toward the bookstore, figuring they could call one from there. Adam followed, still silent. "Look, Adam," Joe said after a few blocks, at a total loss. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to abandon you like that. I wanted your last night in Seacouver to be a special one. I'm sorry I spent it onstage."

Adam laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. In fact, it had an edge to it that raised the hairs on the back of Joe's neck. But Joe was grateful for anything that wasn't more silence. "Joseph Dawson, you may 'abandon' me like that every night of the week as far as I'm concerned," Adam said, his breath fogging in the cold. "That was wonderful. Stupendous. Hearing you play was the most special gift you could have given me."

Joe felt his face wrinkle with disbelief. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Adam answered, and Joe relaxed a bit, hearing in that single word a warmth and approval he’d never expected to hear. They walked on a little further. Adam appeared to be thinking deeply, and Joe had no wish to disturb him. Then the kid spoke. "Joe?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were attracted to me?"

Joe stopped walking. Adam took another few steps, then turned to face him. "You heard," Joe said. "You heard Smoky and the others talking about us. You weren't in the men's room after all."

"No. I wasn't." Adam confirmed, leaning against a handy guard rail. To all outward appearances he was as calm as if they were discussing shelving techniques. "Well? Why didn't you?"

"Uh..." Joe thought furiously, mind whirling. "There were lots of reasons, I guess."

"Like what?"

"Uh, well..."

For the life of him, Joe couldn’t understand why Adam sounded so calm. Didn’t the kid understand what was going on? Any minute now, he was going to realize the truth--namely, that Joe was a raging faggot and had designs upon his person--and then he would swing. It would hurt, too. Joe had ogled Adam's arms and shoulders enough times to know that the kid worked out enough to inflict some serious damage. Hell, Joe would probably welcome the pain. He knew he deserved it. But the truly terrible thing was that he also knew the kid deserved an honest answer, even if it did leave Joe eating pavement afterward. He swallowed. "Well. For starters, you're just a kid..."

"Joe." Adam spread his arms, looking ever so slightly exasperated. His long coat flapped aside, revealing his strong, slender form. "Do I *look* like a kid to you?"

Joe stared at the lithe, handsome body thus being displayed and shook his head. No, Adam was not a kid. Adam was a man...but he was a *young* man, more than ten years Joe's junior. Joe decided to table the matter for the time being. "You're my subordinate," he said instead. "And the Watchers have very strict rules about that sort of thing, Adam. The last thing I need is to be taken in front of a Tribunal."

"Yes. No. Yes." Adam nodded, then shook his head. "I mean--yes, I agree, the last thing I want is to see you in front of a Tribunal, Joe. I did read the Watcher Handbook, you know. As well as sit through endless ethics lectures at the Academy. But I'm not really your subordinate. I work for Don, not you."

Was it possible that someone had slipped something into Joe’s last beer? The kid should, if he decided not to hit him, at least have run away screaming down the street. Instead, he was actively coming up with solutions to all of Joe's objections, and looking at Joe with affection. And not *just* affection, either. There was desire, too. Joe could have sworn that with every fiber of his being. And wasn't that a picture, the handsome young man looking at him with desire? There was a hungry edge to Adam's hazel eyes that sent a shudder down Joe's spine. "You're straight," Joe said, trying to keep his own desire out of his voice. "Not interested in guys at all. You probably have a dozen girlfriends back in Paris…"

"No."

"No?"

"No. Not even one." The kid took a few steps closer. "But it's funny. I was almost a hundred percent certain that *you* did."

"You did?" Christ. "In Paris?"

"Ah, no. Not in Paris," Adam answered. He was standing within arm's length of Joe now. Joe could feel his body heat radiating out to touch him. "Although I honestly don't think that would have surprised me. No--I thought you had a couple of dozen lovely ladies hidden around the Pacific Northwest. You're so good-looking, I couldn't imagine it being otherwise."

Joe's head was truly spinning now. "You think I'm good-looking?" Adam nodded solemnly. "And you want..." Again, the kid nodded, before Joe could even finish the sentence. Adam looked so shy, so childishly eager--his lips were parted slightly with worry, and Joe knew he couldn't make any other objections. "Ah, *shit*," he said under his breath. And kissed him.

***

It was a good thing that the street was abandoned. Seacouver, even in the bar district at three thirty in the morning, was not San Francisco. Two men kissing would have caused comment at best, a hate crime at worst—and Methos did not want to stop, although he would have in an instant if Joe had been in any danger. No. The kiss had come as a total surprise, and thus was much too sweet to be wasted. First kisses always were. Methos kissed back and kept his ears peeled for the sounds of approaching cars or footsteps, silently making up his mind to kill anyone who interrupted.

But they weren't interrupted, and the kiss stretched on and on. God, but it felt good to have Joe's lips on his, to wrap his arms around the shorter body, to hold him close. It had been so long since he'd kissed *anyone*. Methos had given up on one night stands more than a hundred years before, and the last time he'd had a lover of any kind was when he’d been with Byron in Venice Beach, during the late 1960's. Methos hadn't honestly thought anyone else would tempt him again until well into the next century. But Joe was special. Methos had known that, had been determined to keep him as a friend even before he'd known they could be something more. Now that he knew they could, he threw himself into the kiss, realizing that he wanted this just as badly as Joe, and was enjoying it just as much. He felt a strange "rightness" that he hadn't known for a very long time. This was where he was supposed to be.

Joe broke away. With a start, Methos realized the other man was shaking. "Adam," Joe said softly. "You are so young. No, don’t argue with me; there's no point in telling me you aren't. You *are*, and nothing's going to change that. Do you really know what you're doing here?"

*Oh, Joe,* Methos thought. *Did you really have to ask that question? I'm 5,000 years old, and I still haven't got a clue.* But of course he couldn’t say it. He was Adam Pierson, young and shy, and he had to stay in character. "I've been around a bit," he said, resisting the urge to cross his fingers behind his back at the understatement. "It's all right, Joe. I think I know what I'm doing."

Joe laughed softly, mirthlessly. "Yeah, sure you do," he said. "Let me guess what 'been around a bit' really means, okay? I bet it means that you slept with your college girlfriend, maybe even traded a few hand jobs behind the library with the guys. Am I right?" Methos looked down uncomfortably. Joe grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Adam," he said huskily. "I can't take you back to my place tonight without wanting more than that. Much, much more."

The lustful certainty sent a shiver down Methos's spine. He swallowed. "Joe," he said hoarsely. "I'm not a child." *Oh, am I not a child!* "Does it really matter what I have and haven't done before? I want this. I want you." He smiled crookedly, unaware, for once, of just how boyish the expression made him look. Joe's lips parted and his breathing sped up. "Besides, if there's anything I don't know how to do for you, I'm sure you can teach me."

"Fuck." Joe breathed the word like a prayer. The bluesman looked, for the moment, like his body was chiseled out of stone, and Methos wondered if he’d been wrong about this, if he’d pushed the other man too far. But when the yellow cab came by, cruising up the dark, abandoned street, Joe stepped to the curb and hailed it--and gave the driver his home address, not the address of the hotel where Methos was staying. They got in and rode away in silence.

The quiet lasted until they'd reached the small 1920’s craftsman house Joe had grown up in, the one he’d inherited when his parents had died. Methos hung back while Joe fumbled with the key, made apprehensive by Joe’s obvious nervousness. It took Joe several tries just to get the key in the lock, and Methos began to wonder if he shouldn't have started this, after all. But at last the door opened. The two men stepped inside, and then Joe's large broad hands closed in Methos's hair. "God, how I want you," he said. "Kiss me again, Adam."

Methos did. It was a gentle kiss, like the one in the street, but it felt so good. So right. Joe's hands roamed through Methos’s dark hair, then down to Methos’s cheek. When Joe broke the kiss he pulled away, hand still lingering on the smooth silky skin. "Heaven help us,” he said. “You *are* young. You don't even have to shave more than once a week, do you?"

"It's not because I'm a kid, Joe," Methos answered. "Sparse facial hair runs in the family." And that was true, so far as he knew. He'd always assumed that his lack of facial hair was a legacy of his long forgotten people. Currently, this was an advantage. In eras when a beard or sideburns were necessary, he'd had to spend months coaxing the hair to grow, or else fake it altogether. Methos rubbed his chin against Joe's, enjoying the soft sandpaper sound Joe’s whiskers made against his skin. "At least I won't leave you with a rash."

Joe reached up sheepishly to finger his own beard. "I am a bit shaggy," he said. "I haven't shaved since before work this morning, and it's now..."

"Almost four a.m."

"The next morning. Yeah." Joe looked rueful. "Maybe I should duck into the bathroom and take care of it. It would only take a minute."

"Don't you dare," Methos said. "I was teasing, Joe. I like the way you feel. And my skin is *much* tougher than it looks." He leaned in closer. "Kiss me again."

Joe did, a slow, searing smooch that left Methos hardening helplessly against the other Watcher's thigh. He moaned softly and opened his lips, wordlessly inviting Joe in further. Joe took his time, leisurely licking and teasing every sensitive surface in Methos's mouth. Methos knew that the skilled musician's hands would shortly be exploring his body with the same thoroughness, and he shuddered in anticipation. Amused, Joe's hands stroked down Methos’s spine and over the curve of his hip, lightly brushing Methos’s erection through his pants. The sudden surge of pleasure was so intense that Methos actually jumped. "Whoa. Easy there," Joe said, a tinge of concern appearing on his face. "We moving too fast, kid?"

"No," Methos said quickly, but apparently not quickly enough. Joe didn't believe him. He lifted his hand and returned it to the small of Methos's back, pulling him back into an embrace. "It's all right, Adam," Joe said. "You don't have to do anything you don’t want to do, or be anything you're not. It's you I want, not some weird picture of what you think you should be. You're here with me, and that's enough."

"Joe." It was very difficult for Methos to manage coherent speech when Joe was so close to him, his hands moving in tantalizing circles just above his ass. But he had to correct Joe's misconceptions of his innocence, let him know that he didn't have to be so careful. "Joe, I'm not...I don't think you understand..."

"Shhh," Joe soothed. "I do, Adam. Believe me, I do." He smiled fondly. "You think I didn't just about jump out of my skin the first time Smokey touched me like this?"

"What?" It was too much. Methos put aside his first incredulous thought (*oh god, he actually thinks I'm a virgin!*), overwhelmed by the unlikely picture of Joe in bed with the big guitarist who had introduced Joe on the stage. "Smokey was your first?"

"First guy, anyway. It happened back in 'Nam. Before we were wounded," Joe answered. The fond smile was still lingering on his lips. "And after, too. We helped each other out a lot, got each other through some pretty bad times. If it hadn't been for Smokey and the Watchers, I don’t think I’d still be alive."

Methos rapidly replayed the conversation he'd overheard in the bar, looking for any hints of jealousy. "He didn't seem to have any problems with you being interested in me."

"Who, Smokey?" Joe laughed. "Nah. That's all ancient history, now. We're buddies, nothing more. He and Cheryl have been married for years." Joe lifted a hand to Methos's cheek. "I just told you about it so you'd know that I know how you feel. It's all right, Adam. Just let me touch you. It'll be good. I promise."

As if to suit words to deed, Joe's lips started slipping lower, nibbling the line of Methos's chin and jaw, though his hands remained resolutely above Methos's waist. Methos closed his eyes, feeling his resolve start to break down. In some ways, it was *nice* to be treated like the kid Joe thought he was, nice to be touched with so much consideration and care. But— "I thought you said you wanted more than a simple hand job," he hazarded.

Joe chuckled, an unrepentantly lusty sound that made Methos's libido surge. "Yeah. I do at that," he said unapologetically, continuing to nibble his way downward. "But there's no need to rush." He licked the base of Methos's neck and then blew on it, the breath changing from exquisite warmth to exquisite cold as it hit Methos’s moistened skin. "I want to take our time tonight, Adam. I want you to want me inside you, even more than I want to be there. Do you think that's possible?" Methos nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Good. I'd hoped it was." Joe pulled away, held out his hand. "Let's go to the bedroom. I'd like to get off my feet."

Methos followed. When they reached Joe's tiny bedroom Joe lay down on the bed fully clothed, arms open in invitation. Methos settled into them, feeling a combination of confusion and desire that he hadn't felt in thousands of years. The whole situation was worthy of a Shakespearean farce, if not an outright tragedy. Joe was clearly going to be disappointed that Methos was not the innocent Joe so obviously wanted. And yet, Methos almost wished he could be-- wished he could give Joe that gift, wished he could give it to himself. He kissed Joe tenderly, sadly, thinking how much easier it would be if he could just be Adam Pierson first for once and Methos second. Joe would never know how much it could have meant...

"I've got to touch you, Adam," Joe said softly. "Let me take off your shirt." Methos nodded and rolled onto his back, watching as Joe propped himself up on one elbow and slowly started undoing Methos’s buttons. Each inch of skin became extraordinarily sensitive as it was bared, making Methos keenly aware of every glance and touch--and there certainly were a lot of both. Joe feasted on his torso as if he'd uncovered a rare work of art, desire and appreciation plain. Then he bent to lightly kiss one of Methos's nipples.

Methos's whole body arched. It shouldn't have. Heaven knew, he'd had thousands of mouths on his chest before. The simple kiss should not have run through his body like wildfire. But Joe Dawson was special. "Oh, god," Methos said.

"Feel good?"

"Oh god!" Methos couldn't help it. He buried his hands in the other man's hair, pulling him closer, forcing more of the contact that was driving him mad. "Joe," he panted as Joe’s clever tongue sent another arc of pleasure through him, an arc that differed from an orgasm only in strength. "Joe, I've got to tell you. You've got to know..."

"Shh. It's all right, Adam," Joe whispered. "You don't have to tell me anything. Just let yourself feel it." A gentle hand touched Methos's flank. "Just feel it. For me."

And with that Methos gave up, surrendered totally. Maybe he had lived for more than five millennia, and had forgotten more lovers than most mortals took breaths. Maybe he was crusty and cynical and old. But for Joe, he would be the Adam Joe thought he was—for Joe, this could be his first time. Because, in a way, it was. It was his first time with Joe, and that would never come again...

Things started progressing rather quickly after that. Together, Joe's hand over his, they undid Methos's zipper, Joe guiding the metal downward in a long slow slide that left Methos breathless. Methos stood up to take off his boots and pants, because it was too much trouble to wriggle out of them on the bed, and returned to find Joe eyeing his erection with greedy joy. "God, but you're beautiful," the musician said, and struggled to sit up. "Help me off with my pants? I'll need a little help with my legs, too."

"Yes. Yes." Methos knelt in front of his lover eagerly, wanting to share in this simple ritual, loving the trust Joe was gifting him with. Most of the amputees Methos had known had been very uncomfortable about showing their stumps, but Joe seemed to be the exception. He showed Methos his legs the same way he showed him his cock, his shoulders and his chest; they were all simply part of him, Joe Dawson plain and simple. Methos looked, worshipping, and saw the bluesman smile. "Come here, kid,” he said. “Let's see what we can do without all those clothes in the way."

Methos dove onto the bed, and Joe settled over him, wrapping him in strong thick arms. For a moment they just rocked together, each man wanting to feel as much of the other's skin as possible, then Joe stroked a hand down Methos's hip to his cock. Methos gasped as Joe's fingers lightly touched his crown. "Tell me how you want it, Adam," Joe whispered. "Hard and fast? Slow and gentle? Something else entirely? Show me what you need. I want to know."

The light touch was driving Methos mad. He needed a firmer, more encompassing stroke, and he needed it now. He started to do as his lover asked, reaching down to guide Joe's hand--then he stopped. "Joe?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“I don't want this just to be for me."

"Ah, kid." Joe's voice was thick with emotion. "It isn't. Haven't you figured that out yet?" Methos closed his eyes tightly, not wanting Joe to see the wetness there. Joe's voice gentled, deepened. "Adam, I want to make you feel so good. That's all that matters right now. Tell me what you're feeling, kid. Tell me how *I* make you feel."

So, like the virgin Joe thought he was, Methos groped for the words to explain--tried to tell him how his cock pulsed and throbbed, how the entire surface of his skin yearned for the touch of Joe's hands, how he wanted to come for him and him alone. How his heart was caught in a place between total terror and total trust, how new it all felt, and how much he loved Joe for making him feel this way. Once or twice he had to resort to French or one of the other modern languages Joe knew, and wished he dared to speak in more ancient tongues—Joe, gifted as he was at understanding the pain and joy in music, surely would have understood the melody of ancient Sumerian or Egyptian without knowing the words. But Methos didn't dare. Joe drank in every word he said anyway, a look of awe on his face, and when the sentences finally dissolved into an unstructured babble of "yes, yes, so good, please" he pressed his lips to Methos's. Methos didn't stop talking, but instead whispered his love and need into Joe's mouth, knowing that Joe would absorb the words with his tongue instead of his ears. The world exploded...

And rearranged, after a pulsing, blinding eternity to focus on just one incredible sensation. It was Joe's finger, lightly stroking the sensitive skin between his buttocks. "Adam," Joe said heavily. "I want inside you."

"Yes!"

Body heavy with completion as well as new, deeper hungers, Methos rolled onto his side. Joe grabbed a bottle of lubricant off the bedside table. The two men spooned together, Methos's knee raised in an unashamed attempt to allow Joe easier access. The musician fingered his ass the same way he had loved his cock, using just the right combination of gentleness and pressure, and Methos felt himself opening eagerly, felt himself be lovingly stretched. Oh, yes. Joe had been right. He *did* want this much more than Joe did, if this slow, gentle preparation was any indication. Methos didn't understand how Joe could stand to wait. He thrust backwards onto the slippery fingers, silently begging for more.

"Easy, kid. Give me a moment." 

Methos heard the sound of foil tearing, and realized that Joe had taken a condom from its wrapper. He twisted his head around to look over his shoulder. “Joe, that isn’t necessary…”

Joe smiled faintly. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “You may never have done this before, but I have, and I haven’t always been as careful as I should have been, kid. Besides. You’re much too important to take any risks with.” Methos bit down on his lip, feeling a sharp pang that there would have to be such a barrier between them. But such were the times, and there was no way he could tell Joe the real reason why such protection wasn’t necessary. Joe let out a muffled moan as he rolled the condom over his cock, then another as he took the lube and liberally slicked the condom’s surface. "I wish I could kneel over you," he said when he finished, voice heavy with regret. "I want to see your face, and I wish you could see mine. I want you to remember this, Adam, remember *me*. But I can't. It has to be like this."

Methos heard Joe’s regret, and his heart surged, his disappointment over the condom completely forgotten at the thought that he might actually be able to give Joe something special in return. "What about like this?"

He rolled away on the bed, returned on his knees. Joe's face was a battleground between hope and disbelief; he rolled slowly onto his back, eyes never leaving Methos's face. Methos straddled him and ran gentle hands over Joe's chest, thrilled when the man's eyes closed in response, so happy to be able to do something to please him, too. He slowly lowered himself, moaning as the condom’s reservoir tip brushed over his entrance, and reached out a shaky hand to lightly touch Joe’s eyelids. "Open your eyes, Watcher," he said. "Observe and record. I want you to remember me, too."

“For the rest of my life, kid,” Joe answered. “For the rest of my life…”…and Methos's heart gave a painful, sideways beat. At best, the rest of Joe’s life could only comprise of another fifty or sixty years, and he suddenly realized that he wanted more than that for Joe, much, much more. But Joe's face, flushed and sweaty, was so beautiful; Methos pushed the ever-present grief over the shortness of mortal life aside and bore downward, wanting to give Joe all the pleasure he could. A second later the feeling of Joe's thick latex-covered cock slipping into his passage was all he could think about.

"Adam!" It was a shout of complete joy.

"Joe. Joe." The name felt so good in his mouth. Methos felt he could go on saying it forever. Joe felt so perfect in his body, he couldn't imagine ever wanting anything more. He had never completely softened after his last orgasm, and when Joe rocked into his prostate he hardened again. Joe murmured something about the recuperative powers of youth and raised a trembling hand to stroke him, but Methos didn't want any distractions. All he wanted was to feel Joe rocking inside him, carrying them both to the edge. He took Joe's hands...

...and as the first waves of the orgasm hit them both he laced their fingers together and looked into Joe's eyes, locking their gazes, daring the other man to look away. Joe didn't. He looked and kept on looking, entire soul revealed in his eyes. They dove into each other, minds joined as much as bodies, until finally the feeling grew so intense that neither could sustain it. They closed their eyes and roared...

***

Methos did not often wake up in total contentment. He was too well trained. The first moments of awakening almost always boiled down to a rapid appraisal of his situation, his defenses and his safety. *Where am I?* would thunder through his brain. *Who is with me, friend or foe? Am I sure? Is my sword still where I left it when I closed my eyes? What's around me that I can use for cover?* It didn't matter if he was waking up in a gutter or the Ritz. Life had taught him that he needed to be battle ready at all times.

But waking up with Joe was different. Perhaps this was because Methos had never really been asleep at all. Instead, he had just succumbed to a sort of happy trance, listening to the steady rhythm of Joe’s breath, until the speeding of that rhythm had called him back into full awareness. Methos felt warm and comfortable and almost indecently sated. Even the itchy, sticky places on his thighs where the sheets had adhered to his drying semen made him feel contented, not annoyed. He felt Joe's eyes watching him and opened his own, stretching and yawning. "Good morning, Joe."

It was time for the day's first unpleasant shock. Joe's face did not reflect Methos's happiness. Instead, the Watcher's eyes were dark, the lines of his mouth tense and drawn. "Good morning," he said automatically, then, "God, but you're beautiful when you're sleeping"...and then he sighed, and launched into the day's second unpleasant surprise. It took the form of five simple words. "Adam. We need to talk."

*Oh. Shit.* Methos shifted against the pillow, trying to pull himself into a more comfortable position. Nothing good ever followed that phrase, nothing. But he forced himself to speak lightly. "Oh my god," he said. "I've turned you *straight*."

For a moment Joe gaped at him. Then he hung his head and laughed into his chest. "Uh...no. Definitely not," he said. "Too many more nights like this and I might even swear off being bi. You’re addictive, kid." He touched a gentle hand to Methos's arm. "But Adam, I'm serious. We really do need to talk."

Methos closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. There was no point in hiding from the inevitable. "I’m listening, Joe. Tell me what you need to say."

The brown eyes were pained. "We can't see each other again."

"I see." Methos nodded and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Pants, pants. Where were his pants? Methos knew he'd left his coat and sword by the door, and he'd slipped on his boxers to sleep, but his pants appeared to have evaporated. In Paris he could have gotten on the Metro in just his underwear and coat--the City of Love was remarkably understanding about early morning break-ups--but in Seacouver the same outfit would probably get him hauled downtown for questioning. Borrowing a pair of Joe's was out of the question, they would simply never fit. Methos had to find his own. He got out the bed and crouched inelegantly on the floor, trying to peer underneath.

From the bed, Joe eyed his boxer-clad ass incredulously. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Looking for my pants," Methos answered, his voice muffled. Christ, but Joe had a lot of stuff under his bed. Stacks of guitar music and shoe boxes overflowing with receipts. It was almost as bad as the bookstore had been. Well, at least the sheer abundance of detritus meant that there wasn’t room for Methos’s pants to have crawled all the way underneath. They had to be someplace else. Methos sat back on his heels, blowing the hair out of his eyes. "As soon as I find them, I'll get out of your way."

Joe's jaw dropped. "You're leaving?" he said, watching as Methos starting poking through the pile of clothes Joe had left on a chair. "Just like that?"

"Isn't that what you want?" Ah. Pay dirt. Methos pulled his crumpled trousers out of the pile. "I may be just a 'kid', Joe Dawson, but I've been around long enough to recognize a kiss-off when I hear one. 'We can't see each other anymore' almost always translates to 'Get out of my sight as quickly as you can'." Methos frowned at the crumpled wool, brushed at it fretfully for a moment, then decided there was nothing he could do to fix it. "I'll make it easy for you, Joe. You don't even have to take me to the airport. Just let me get dressed first."

"Oh, Adam." Joe started to laugh.

Methos stared at him. "What's so funny?" Joe's laughter doubled. He actually rolled back onto the comforter, his arms wrapped around his chest. "Well?"

"You'll hit me if I tell you."

"I feel like hitting you now," Methos responded testily. "Joe..."

"All right, all right. I'll tell you. But don't say I didn't warn you first." Joe pushed himself into a sit, wheezing a little as he tried to recapture his breath. "It's you, that's all. You are so very, very young."

Methos glared. What? His best aloof early morning break-up pose, honed over the millennia, and Joe was laughing at him for being *young*? "Look, kid," Joe said. "I started out badly, I admit it. But *you* were the one who started jumping to conclusions. In this case, 'We can't see each other again' does NOT mean ‘I can't stand the sight of you’. Believe me. The truth is exactly the opposite." His glance flickered over Methos's torso, then he sighed and patted the bed. "Come back here and give me a chance to say what I mean."

Reluctantly, Methos did. It felt odd, slipping back into bed with a man who'd just said he could no longer see him. The comfortable intimacy of the morning had crumbled. But he willed his body to stretch out, and Joe pulled the blankets back over them. "That's better," Joe said tenderly. "The first thing you need to know is this: there's nothing wrong with *you.* Nothing at all. And last night--shit, kid. It was the stuff of dreams, for me at least." The musician's eyes suddenly looked vulnerable. "I hope it was for you too."

Guardedly, Methos nodded, keeping his face still. "It was so much like a dream, that I forgot about a lot of things," Joe continued. "I forgot about Don, and Paris, and my responsibilities to you as your superior. Most of all I forgot that we both wore these." Joe held up his wrist. The faded Watcher tattoo looked bizarrely ominous in the filtered morning light. "We both took the oath," Joe said. "And that means that we both have certain duties to uphold. One of which is NOT having homosexual affairs with other Watchers. I'm sorry, kid. This is the way it has to be."

Methos stared. "Since when do the Watchers have anything to do with it?" he asked in disbelief. "Look, Joe, I know there are rules against messing around with your subordinates, but I thought we settled that last night. I don't work under you. I never did, not really."

"Oh, Adam." Joe rubbed his hand over his face. "It's not a written rule that's going to get us into trouble. It almost never is. What, you think they're going to print it right in the Handbook that fags should never be allowed to take the Oath? It's true nonetheless." Methos continued to stare. "Listen to me, Adam. I know what I'm talking about. I've seen it happen to others--and it would have happened to me, if I hadn't been so careful to keep my private life truly private. It's just like any other job. At best, you'll find yourself passed over for promotions and special assignments. At worst--" Joe shuddered. "At worst, you might find yourself retired. Forcibly."

Methos didn't have to ask what 'forcibly' meant. The Watchers didn't take well to the thought of disgruntled former employees breaking secrecy. Instead of firing people who broke the rules, they buried them. Methos knew that--every recruit did, before they so much as took their first class at the Academy. He just hadn't realized that homosexuality was now considered adequate reason for such a retirement. "Joe," he said carefully. "Don't you think you're overstating the dangers just a little bit?"

"Maybe," Joe admitted. "Maybe I am. I came of age in darker times, kid. It's very possible that I still see dragons where none exist. But you have a brilliant career ahead of you. Do you really want to take the risk?"

"I--”

Methos hesitated. His so-called "career" he could risk without a thought; rising through the Watcher ranks meant nothing to him, nothing at all. But what about his haven from the Game? "We could just both be careful," he said slowly. "Keep our relationship secret. After all, it's no one's business but ours. Nobody besides us would have to know."

"If you think that's true, kid, than you haven't figured out how I feel about you." Joe answered. "You're special. Too damn special, I think." He smiled sadly. "You know what my first thought was when you told me you were going back to Paris? It wasn't 'But you're going to miss the store’s grand opening, after all the work you've done!' It was 'But you're going to miss Thanksgiving!' I was horrified by the thought of you being gone for the holiday. Oh, I knew it was stupid the moment I thought it, but it's true. Somehow, I'd just pictured the two of us together, for Thanksgiving, and for Christmas, and for long after. You'd gotten that deeply under my skin." Joe shook his head. "No, Adam. I don't think I could be involved with you in any more permanent way without shouting it to the world a thousand times over--in every word I ever spoke to you, every look, every touch. Sooner or later someone would catch on. Hell, Smokey knew within ten seconds of seeing us together, and that was before last night. Before I knew there was a chance of my feelings being returned. What hope do I have of hiding it now?"

There was just the hint of tears on the other man's face. Methos took his hands, very moved by Joe's honesty. It was rare to come across someone who could both feel so deeply and had the bravery to express it; in all his life, Methos could have counted on his fingers the number of men he'd known who could. *Oh, Joe, Joe,* he thought, mourning silently. *You're right. This has to end now. If it doesn't, it will go on for a long, long time...and that is risky, too risky to consider. I don't care about losing my position with the Watchers; I've had to start over so many, many times. But what about you? Your career, your bookstore, your life? And what about my secret, my survival? Sooner or later, you will find out what I really am-- you're a good Watcher, Joe, one of the best I've ever seen. And what will happen then?* 

Joe was watching him closely, so sad, so patiently waiting for some sign of young Adam's thoughts. *I don't believe that you would ever intentionally do me harm, Joe,* Methos thought. *But could you betray everything you ever believed in, just to keep my secret? Would I even want you to? Especially knowing that you were risking a "forced retirement" of your own if the Watchers ever discovered the truth and learned you hadn’t turned me in? Joe, if you stay with me you will have to face decisions no decent man should ever have to make, and that path just might end in a Watcher's bullet. I want to bury you at one hundred, my friend, dead of too much wine and too much song. I don't want to have to dig your body up out of an unmarked Watcher grave.* "All right, Joe," Methos said aloud, looking down at the bed where he'd awakened, so happy, such a short time ago. "This will end here. I won't call you again, and no one will ever know about last night. It's all right. I understand."

"Do you kid? Do you really?" Joe's face was earnest. "All of this is my fault, you know. I'm older, I should have thought about the consequences before I let anything serious happen." He swallowed. "You have a right to hate me for it."

"I don’t hate you, Joe. I’m disappointed, but I’m not angry. As I already said, I do understand." *You're the one who doesn't,* Methos thought sadly. *But that's all right. I'll let you think that you're being the noble one, bravely sacrificing all to protect young Adam's career. The truth will have to stay buried.* He cleared his throat and smiled wanly. "Will you at least make me some breakfast before you sling me out?"

Joe's answering smile was relieved. "Yeah, kid. I will. But you have to make the coffee."

***

When Adam Pierson left for Paris later that afternoon, Joe Dawson drove him to the airport. He helped Adam check his baggage, walked him through security, and waved him goodbye at the gate. He even stayed standing at the window, a lone figure with grizzled hair and a cane silhouetted against the airport's shiny tile floor and impersonal black vinyl seats, until the plane had taxied out of view. Then he resolutely turned his back and went home.

**~End Prologue~**


	2. Adam and Joe

**Adam and Joe**

“No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth.” ~Robert Southey 

  


“The most wonderful of all things in life, I believe, is the discovery of another human being with whom one's relationship has a glowing depth, beauty, and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between two human beings is a most marvelous thing, it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is a sort of Divine accident.” ~Sir Hugh Walpole

****  
__  
**~City of Seacouver, April 1993~**  
  
 __  
 **~Six and a Half Years Later~**  
  


"Don! Don Salzer!"

Joe, trying to keep his balance amongst the milling airport crowd, wondered how many hours of his life he had spent standing in an airport, searching a group of anonymous strangers for the one Watcher VIP he was suppose to pick up. *Too many* he thought, then: *Ah, hell, this makes up for it.* The white-haired researcher was pushing his way through the stream of people much like an especially overweight salmon swimming against the tide. He waved wildly when he heard Joe's shout, almost toppling himself over in his enthusiasm. Joe felt himself warm all over. *Say what you like about this crazy job, sometimes the people make it all worth while,* he thought. "Don! Welcome to the States, old buddy!"

"Joe Dawson, my dear old chap!" Face split into an overwhelming grin, Don struggled out of the crowd and closed on Joe, pumping Joe’s hand eagerly in welcome. "It is so good to see you again!" He let go and turned to a tall, thin woman, also struggling to make it out of the crowd in one piece. "I'm sure you remember my lovely companion."

Joe quickly controlled his face. The woman struggling to smooth down her flawlessly cut skirt was none other than Christine Dummond, one of Joe’s least favorite women of all time. *What the hell is SHE doing here?* "Indeed I do," he said smoothly. "Hello, Christine."

"Hello, Joe." Christine’s reply was perfectly polite, and just about any one else in the world would have interpreted it as cordial. Only Joe heard the slight coolness, and the ironic twist she gave the next word. "Surprise."

"It certainly is," Joe agreed. He turned to Don, putting on one of his most charming, if also possibly one of his most fake, smiles. "Don, you old son of a gun! You never told me you were bringing company."

"I never got the chance," Don said cheerfully. "Christine only decided she was coming this morning. It was pure luck that she was able to get a seat on the same flight."

"Not luck, dear," Christine corrected. "Persuasion. It took me nearly half an hour to talk that exchange student into giving up his seat." She raised her hand so Joe could see the bright glimmer of gold around her finger. "I couldn't let Donald leave me just a handful of days after our wedding, now could I?"

"Wedding?" Joe's smile froze. His eyes flickered to Don, hoping to see some form of denial. But the researcher was grinning widely, looking happier than Joe had ever seen. The happiness made Joe feel ashamed. *Maybe there's more to her than meets the eye,* he thought. *Who am I to judge?* "Congratulations!" he said. "You two finally took the plunge. This calls for a celebration."

"That's what I thought," Christine said, smirking in a way that made Joe want to wring her neck. She turned to her new husband. "Why don't we pick up our luggage, Don? Then Joe can treat us to the fanciest, most expensive dinner in Seacouver."

Don looked doubtful. "Oh, now, I don't think that's really necessary, Christine..."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Joe interrupted. It would be worth any amount of money to keep Christine’s mouth occupied. "You two ever been to the top of the Galaxy Needle?"

It was almost worth the impending damage to Joe’s bank balance to see the excited look on Don's face. "No!" the researcher exclaimed happily. "But I've read all about it, of course. Did you know that the great Dennis Barlow actually worked on the construction? It's true. Of course, he also worked on the Eiffel tower, and many other notable structures before his death..."

"Death?" Joe frowned. "Are we really sure Barlow lost his head? Last I heard, there was a theory going around that he had just used the Vietnam War as a chance to change identities. Johnson was Hunting him, after all. Barlow could've just put his tags on another headless body..."

"Boys," Christine said pointedly, and Don, who had been about to reply, closed his mouth with a sheepish smile. Christine turned to Joe. "As it happens, I have eaten at the Tower before," she said. "My father took me on a tour of the States when I was a girl, and we saw all the notable landmarks. But I would love to see it again."

"Then that's what we'll do." Joe started to turn toward the terminal's exit, then a thought struck him. "Uh, Christine? Have you made arrangements for a place to stay? I know Don was planning to room with me, but..." *...but something tells me that my pull-out sofa bed just won't do for you, Your Highness. God! Why must the kindest, least selfish men I know always end up marrying these horrible cows? Maybe I should be grateful being Northwest Coordinator keeps me too busy to date.*

"Oh, I think the Watcher Operating fund can stretch to a suite at the Four Seasons for a few nights," Christine answered. "This is our honeymoon, after all."

"You see how she takes care of me?" Don said, beaming. "I would have been happy with the nearest motor inn, but Christine always insists on the best."

"But of course, my darling. Why else would I have married you?"

The newlywed couple kissed lightly, and Joe felt himself smile despite his misgivings. *Okay, I do have to give her that,* he thought. *Don’s a good man, one of the best that ever lived. I guess I can stand a week of Christine if it makes him happy.* Joe waved a hand towards the sign saying "Baggage Claim." "Come on, folks. The Galaxy...and your luggage... awaits."

***

Christine Salzer had once been a Watcher herself. She'd never served as a field agent, but had worked as a confidential secretary for one of the organization’s many lawyers. When they sat down in the restaurant, Joe was very amused to see that she no longer wore her Watcher tattoo. Christine rubbed the blank space on her wrist ruefully when she caught him looking. "Theatrical makeup," she said. "But I'm going to have the surgery to remove it permanently just as soon as we get home. Don's promised to take me away from all that."

Don coughed. "Well, as far away as the Head of European Research *can* take you, my dear," he said gently. "But yes, Christine, you yourself will never have to work again. The legal office will simply have to find someone else to do their bidding." He took her hand. "Christine was granted an early retirement last month."

"Well! This is a double celebration, then." Joe gestured toward Don. "I suppose one of these days they'll retire us too, old friend."

"I suppose," Don said thoughtfully. "Do you know, I almost never can remember just how old I really am? I know I've been doing this work for many, many years. And yet a part of me is still that young man who was recruited fresh out of Oxford, entering the Great Library in Paris for the very first time. I still feel awed every time a new Chronicle crosses my desk." 

Joe nodded, a fond smile coming to his face. He knew that feeling well. The fact that Don still felt it too was one of the reasons why they were such good friends. The researcher beamed. "The work is still so fascinating. I often think I might just turn out to be like old Hudson…do you remember him, Joe? He was ninety-two, you know, when they found him slumped in that chair in the London archives. My fate shall ultimately be the same. One day I'll simply close my eyes and cross over in the stacks. My maker knows where to find me when he calls."

"Not if I can help it," Christine said sharply. "There is much more to life than Chronicles, darling. Now that we're married, I'm going to see that you experience some of it."

"Now, now, my dear. You knew when you married me that you weren't getting an adventurer. But I do promise I'll try." Don leaned toward Joe. "Enough about this...how are you, Joseph? I have to tell you, your reports this fall have caused quite a stir. Imagine, Connor MacLeod actually visiting Seacouver! And Duncan MacLeod rejoining the Game! These are exciting times, my friend. You must tell me all about them."

Joe relaxed and did as Don asked, talking quietly about MacLeod as the restaurant floor turned and the city lights rotated gracefully below their window. He half expected Christine to start pouting about the return to Watcher conversation ...god knew how he and Don were ever going to get any work done with her hanging around...but to his surprise Christine seemed genuinely interested in hearing about MacLeod’s adventures. *Of course, she's probably seen a few of his pictures by now,* Joe thought irritably. *That usually gets the attention of the ladies. Score another point for the old Highland charm.* When dessert came, Christine asked Joe about MacLeod’s relationship with Tessa Noel. “Are they really still in love?” she asked. “Surely Tessa must be starting to show her age by now. I would have thought Mr. MacLeod would have moved on to greener pastures.”

For a moment, Joe’s loathing for the former secretary almost bubbled over. *Tessa Noel will be sexier at one hundred and ten than you were at twenty, Mrs. Salzer,* he thought angrily. *I wonder what it would take to teach you to be polite about other people’s love lives? A wine glass in the lap might just do the trick…* But he contented himself with a shrug of his shoulders. “Ms. Noel is quite an unusual women,” he said mildly, lightly spearing a bite of the Galaxy’s exquisite cheesecake. “And you have to remember that from MacLeod’s point of view, Tessa will always be his child bride. I don’t see them splitting up anytime soon, especially not now that Tessa’s starting to come to terms with the Game. It isn’t uncommon for an Immortal to stay with a mortal spouse throughout the mortal’s life, you know.” Joe looked meditatively out the window. “Maybe they see a beauty in our aging process we just can’t.”

Christine sniffed. Don, on the other hand, smiled fondly as he took his wife’s hand. "You know, I do believe I once heard young Adam say the very same thing?”

Joe choked on his drink. He took a quick sip of water and patted his lips with a napkin to cover it. *Oh, god. Now there was a name I wasn't expecting to hear.* "Adam? Do you mean Adam Pierson?"

"Yes, of course. Adam Pierson. I think we were discussing Rebecca and her gentleman friend at the time, weren’t we, Christine?” Christine nodded, her lips pursed curiously as she regarded Joe’s flushed face. “Adam was trying to track down a reference to Methos in one of the older Darian Chronicles, and Rebecca just happened to come up. Of course you know she’s attended Darius’s church for centuries," Don said. He frowned, no doubt puzzled by the agonized deer-in-the-headlights look on Joe's face. "Surely you haven't forgotten our old poker pot, Joseph? Adam certainly remembers you. He asks about you nearly every time I see him." The wise old researcher's eyes narrowed. "I thought you two were great friends. Did something happen?"

"What? No, oh no. We just lost touch, that's all." Joe put on his brightest smile. "How is the kid? Last I heard he was on the verge of discovering Methos in Scotland."

"Scotland?" Don looked confused for a moment. "Oh, yes, I remember that! Goodness, you have been out of touch. Adam went on that trip almost five years ago, right after the Methos Project finally received full funding. I always rather suspected it was just a good excuse to go on a lengthy pub crawl through the Isles. You know what boys that age are like. But Adam did come home with some amazing evidence that Methos had worked on the Book of Kells. It was truly jaw dropping stuff.” Don polished off the last of his cheesecake. “No, I’m afraid Adam has turned his sights on Asia. As a matter of fact, he’s in Nepal right now, backpacking through the Himalayas. He wants to track down an old Buddhist monastery where Methos might have stayed.”

And the old researcher went on, proudly filling Joe in on his protégé’s most recent exploits. Joe listened and nodded, giving every appearance of paying close attention while his mind wandered off on its own. Five years? No way. It couldn’t, just couldn’t, have been that long since he’d last heard from the kid. Of course, the long silence was entirely Joe’s own fault, but still…the fact that it had been a whole half a decade blew his mind. *You might as well admit the whole truth, Joe,* Joe thought ruefully, twisting his water glass in his hands while he pretended to listen to Don. *Meeting him, falling in love with him, still seems like it happened yesterday too, and that was more than six and a half years ago now. Some things you just never get over.*

The truth was, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He'd worked very hard to avoid any contact with the kid, after all. Adam had written to Joe often after he’d first left Seacouver, long newsy epistles that told Joe how he was and what he was working on. The messages hadn’t been romantic in the slightest, but even so Joe had never answered. How could he, when he knew he couldn’t trust what he would write? When after a few months the letters had started coming less and less frequently, finally ceasing to come at all, Joe had been secretly heartbroken, but also very relieved. Adam really should give up on him, should stop wasting his time. It was for the best. 

But then the next winter had come, and Joe had received the Airmail package with the ultra-rare Milo Davis album inside. The package had born no return address, but the French airmail labels had spoken volumes. Joe still remembered the way his hand had shaken as he read the note inside: "Not for the store, not for any reason, just because I thought it should belong to you.” Adam hadn’t even bothered to sign it. Presumably he’d known that Joe would know that the gift could not have come from anyone else.

The urge to pick up the phone and call the kid had been so strong it had frightened Joe to the soul. He'd spent a day panicking—and then he’d gone through his photo album and picked out a picture of himself and his cousin Marjory, a picture snapped by Margie's husband but looking suspiciously like she and Joe could be involved romantically. They were standing close together, Margie was an attractive lady of about Joe’s age, a bunch of mistletoe was hanging in the background...it added up. Christmas was approaching rapidly. Joe tucked the photo into the blandest, most obscenely generic Christmas card he could find along with an equally bland note of thanks, and had sent it to Paris ASAP.

Adam did not write again.

Then came that day five years ago. Joe had followed MacLeod and Tessa on a visit to Paris and accepted a last minute invitation to one of Brian Johnson's famous Watcher-only poker parties while he was there. He'd almost had a heart attack when he’d sat down at the games table and realized that the pale face staring back at him across the felt belonged to Adam Pierson. And yes, *heart* attack was exactly the right word...the kid was gorgeous, even more beautiful than Joe had let himself remember. Adam had been shuffling the deck. Joe had taken one look at those long, sensitive fingers and his heart had stopped outright. "Oh, I see you've met the competition," Brian had said jovially, handing Joe a drink and slapping him on the back. "Come on, Joe! I know Adam's got quite a reputation for being a poker shark, but there's no reason to actually stop breathing!"

"Um, actually we've never met before," Adam had interrupted, his voice a perfect mix of politeness and boyish enthusiasm. He’d put the deck down and extended his hand eagerly. "Hello, Mr. Dawson. I'm Adam Pierson. It's good to finally meet you; Don Salzer talks about you often. Brian tells me you're only going to be in Paris for a short time. Is that true?"

Joe had recovered just enough to shake the hand and answer semi-intelligently. "Uh, yeah,” he’d said. “Well, I guess it really depends on my assignment. I'm not sure how long MacLeod and Miss Noel will be staying. They move back and forth between Paris and Seacouver quite regularly."

"You must accumulate a lot of airline miles then," Adam answered. And the evening had gone on, both men doing a flawless job of pretending they'd never met before. Only once did Joe get the chance to speak to the kid honestly, when Adam had gone into the kitchen to get more beer. Adam's mouth had tightened dangerously when he’d discovered that Joe had followed him, but he’d opened the refrigerator door anyway, bending down to get the cans off the bottom shelf. "I got the album," Joe had said quietly. He hadn't known what else to say.

Adam had straightened, his arms full of beer cans. "Yes, I know," he’d said, carefully avoiding Joe’s eyes as he stacked the cans on a tray. "*I* got the photo."

Joe’s heart had twisted in his chest. It was going to be a miracle if he got through the night without being rushed to a Paris hospital. "Yeah," he’d said hurriedly. "Adam, she was my cousin..."

The boyish face had disappeared into the fridge again, come out with a few more cans, and closed the door. "I know," he answered. "I met her at the bookstore once, when she dropped by while you were out. But I figured if you went to all the trouble of making me think she was more than that, you must really want me out of your life for good." He’d picked up the tray and started backing out through the swinging kitchen door.

Joe had stopped him, placing a hand on Adam’s chest. Afterward, the feeling of warm strong muscle inadequately shrouded by cotton t-shirt had haunted Joe’s fingers for days. "Not want," he’d said helplessly. "You have to know that, kid. It was never a matter of 'want'."

Adam's expression had softened, and the memory of that look was the only thing that had kept Joe sane all this time. If he’d seen anger, or hate, Joe might very well have gone home and drunk himself into a stupor. But he hadn’t. Instead, Adam's face had just held love, and wistfulness, and a wise acceptance that Joe would have thought was well beyond any twenty-eight-year-old's capacity to feel. "Well, at least we still have that in common. It's all right, Joe. Let it be." He’d pushed back with his shoulders. The kitchen door had opened, and once again they were visible to the rest of the party. Adam had played one more hand and excused himself, saying he had to be up early the next day...

...and that was it, the one and only time Joe had ever seen the kid since their memorable affair. Joe had to assume that after the party, Adam had taken as many pains as Joe to make sure they never crossed paths again. They had so many interests and acquaintances in common that surely they would have run into each other someplace if they hadn’t both been trying so hard not to. And there was no question that the self-discipline had paid off, if you could call it paying off. No one, not even Don, had ever suspected that Adam Pierson and Joseph Dawson had ever been more than colleagues. 

And no one had ever guessed how much it hurt when Joe heard someone say Adam’s name.

But at least the kid was doing all right. Don had every right to be proud of him. Under Adam’s guidance, The Methos Project had become a very respectable endeavor. The Watcher Council had been so impressed with some of Adam’s discoveries that they’d moved the project out of Don's basement and into its own space, a set of offices right next to the great Parisian research libraries. Joe smiled when he heard that, knowing it would please Adam's bibliophile heart no end. Even more impressive was the fact that Adam now had two full-time research assistants working under him, and everyone knew Don was grooming the kid to replace him as the head of European Research someday. "Of course, the move downtown means that I don't get to see as much of the boy as I used to," Don confided sadly. "I must admit that I miss him. I can’t wait for this latest research trip to end; I really want to hear what Adam thinks about this recent rash of Challenges by previously unknown Immortals. But he promised me he’d be back from Nepal in plenty of time to play on the Researcher's softball team this year, so I really don’t have long to wait…"

"The softball team?" This bit of news was enough to break Joe out of his melancholy trance. "How on earth did you talk Adam into playing for that hopeless cause? The Researchers haven’t beaten the Field Agents in more than twenty years!"

"It was easy, dear boy," Don responded. "All I had to do was take him to the pub for one of our traditional defeat celebrations. I've never met a man who loves free beer more than Adam Pierson." Joe chuckled. Don went on: "Christine also sees to it that he joins us for one of her famous Sunday dinners at least once a month. Christine's taken quite a shine to the lad, haven't you, Christine?"

"I certainly have," Christine said warmly. "He’s such a charming young man. So polite, and such entertaining stories! It's a pity he's so shy. He could have romanced half the young ladies in Paris if he wasn't."

Joe went into another coughing spell. Don's face took on a slightly strained expression. "Yes, well," he said. "I don't think shyness is quite the problem, my dear. I don't think young ladies interest our Adam very much."

Joe’s forehead furrowed. Had Adam told Don about his true inclinations, then? *Oh, hell, he would have had to,* Joe thought. *Don's got surprisingly sharp eyes, and there would be no reason to hide it from him, now would there? Don's about as sympathetic as you can get without actually playing for the team. The kid's probably brought dozens of his boyfriends to Christine’s dinners over the years, only the old cow was just too plain dense to notice.* Joe had to quell a sudden sadness at the idea. *And no, Joe Dawson, you are not going to get jealous at the thought of the kid dating now. You know you wanted him to move on.* "Adam certainly seemed much more interested in...other things.... when he was working for me," Joe said aloud.

Christine sniffed. "Old books and dead languages, no doubt. Men! If Adam had to rely on you two, he'd never find a nice girl to settle down with. He *is* shy. You saw the way he danced out of the way when I wanted to take his picture at your first softball game, Don. He only let me take one photo, and even then I had to promise that you would keep the only copy." Christine settled back into her chair, shaking her head. "It's a shame, that's what it is. If he'd just let me keep one to show around I'm sure I could have gotten him a girlfriend by now."

Don's eyes flickered to Joe's, eyebrows raised. Joe grinned obnoxiously. "Well, I'm sure if anyone could find a girlfriend for Adam, it would be you, Christine," he said.

Don chuckled aloud. But Christine smiled, very pleased with herself, and Joe took the opportunity to steer the conversation in other directions. It simply hurt too much to talk about Adam Pierson for long. But...

...but the image of Christine bearing down on the kid, camera in hand and a matchmaker's grim determination in her heart, kept resurfacing in Joe’s mind throughout the rest of desert, making him chuckle at the oddest times. When they finished and Don led Christine out to the coat check, Joe paid the bill and lingered at the window, looking at his reflection superimposed over the glittering, flickering expanse of city lights. He lifted his glass. "To you, kid," he said, and went to join the newlyweds in the lobby.

 

**_~Paris, May 1993~_ **  
**_~One Month Later~_ **

 

"Darius?"

A familiar dark head appeared around the old stone archway, grinning widely as it took in the rather anachronistic sight of a consecrated priest listening to a Sony Discman. Darius's face crinkled in pleasure. "Brother John! Come in, come in!" Eyes sparkling, Darius beckoned his visitor into the room, reaching up to remove his headphones. The unmistakable sound of heavy metal blared out of the tiny speakers for a few moments before he could turn the portable CD player off. "My dear old friend, what a wonderful surprise," Darius said affectionately, setting the player carefully on his desk. "It has been too long."

“Only a few months, Darius. Short enough a time for our kind.” The Immortal Formerly Known As Brother John ambled slowly into the room, looking around the rectory with an intense feeling of satisfaction. It was good to be home. The Himalayas were magnificent, and a visit to them was always good for Methos’s soul; the mountains’ immense, rugged beauty had a way of putting any human life into true perspective, even one as lengthy as his. But somehow—he wasn’t quite sure why—Methos no longer truly belonged there. His roots were now irrevocably set in Paris, a fact that had been driven home to him by the way his heart had lifted when he’d looked out the window of the 747 and seen the city spreading out below. Now, it was driven home even more strongly, just by being in Darius’s presence. The priest got to his feet, and the two men exchanged a warm hug. “It is very good to see you looking so well,” Darius said in his clear, slightly accented voice. “I take it the holy mountains are still in one piece?”

“They are, and as beautiful as ever,” Methos answered. “Although it did seem to me that they were not quite as high as they used to be. Darius, I am getting old indeed if even the mountains seem to be aging.”

Darius patted him on the arm affectionately. “You will never be old, my friend,” he said. “You have the kind of heart that will stay young forever. And I was just thinking to myself as you came in that you have managed to adapt to the current era better than any other Immortal I know. Why, just look at you. Any bystander would think you were just another of the hundreds of college students that flock to my church every summer, determined to tour all the historic sites before they must return to their studies in the fall.”

Methos glanced down at the battered blue jeans and hiking boots he’d been wearing since before he’d gotten on the plane in Katmandu. “Graduate student, please,” he said. “My current persona is now well into his thirties. It takes maturity and wisdom to achieve this kind of filth.” Darius chuckled. “Besides,” Methos continued, sobering. “Camouflage is the best protection any Immortal can have. It’s a thousand times more effective than a sword.”

Darius patted him on the back and moved away, looking indulgent. “I’ve always found Holy Ground to be even better.”

“There are dangers not even Holy Ground can protect us from, Darius,” Methos said. He ambled over to inspect the line of wooden kegs arranged against the wall. “Not the least of which would be this awful honey-mead of yours. Don’t tell me you’re still brewing this menace.”

“Is that your way of asking to sample the latest batch, Brother John?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Methos eased his backpack, liberally spotted with a dozen new airline stickers, to the floor and then eased himself into a chair at Darius’s big peasant table, sighing gratefully as the old wooden chair took his weight. *All these modern conveniences are getting to me,* Methos thought to himself as he reached down to rub his toes through the top of one boot. *There was a time when I could walk the length of a continent barefoot. Now all it takes is a few hours standing in line at Customs to do me in. I *am* getting old.* The fragrant scent of the honey mead filled the air as Darius filled two large mugs. Methos breathed it in appreciatively, then picked up the Discman Darius had left lying on the table. “I see I’m not the only one who is adapting to the current era,” he said. “What on earth was that noise I heard spilling out of your headphones when I walked in?”

"I shouldn’t have thought you’d dare to call any music noise, given some of the things you’ve had me listen to during our chess games,” Darius said archly. Methos grinned, remembering the afternoon just before he’d left for Nepal when he’d tried…unsuccessfully…to introduce Darius to the wonders of Nirvana and the newly emergent Seattle grunge scene. (At least a few of the lyrics to “Polly” had prompted enough brow-furrowing confusion on the priest’s part that Methos had been able to check mate him in four fewer moves than normal.) Darius returned with two foaming mugs, seating himself across the table. “In any event, I was listening mostly from curiosity,” he said. “I confiscated both disk and player from a young parishioner who insisted on listening to them during Mass. Of course it was very irresponsible of me to take advantage of his lapse…”

Methos took a sip of the mead. He rolled the thick liquid over his tongue, savoring the sweet-musky flavor that had all but disappeared from the modern world, and grinned wickedly. “Oh, yes. Terribly irresponsible.”

“…but when I saw the artist’s name on the disk I just couldn't resist." Darius nodded at the CD player. "It seems that an old acquaintance of ours is in the process of becoming famous once again. Go ahead, take a look. I think you'll find it interesting."

Curiosity piqued, Methos did. He popped open the player to reveal a glossy black CD, liberally embellished with tombstones and dripping blood. The floridly gothic letters took some time decipher, but Methos managed. "Byron and the Undead,” he read aloud. “‘Resurrection’.” He snapped the player closed, feeling a sudden throbbing start up behind his temples. “So he's at it again."

"You didn't know?”

"I honestly had no idea. There aren’t a lot of copies of Rolling Stone floating around in Nepal.” Methos turned the Discman over in his hands. “How long ago was this released?"

"Only a few weeks. From what my young friend tells me, this new band is becoming quite the rage."

“Hmmm.” Methos put on the headphones and pressed play. A melodic, deceivingly simple interweaving of guitar and flute greeted Methos’s ears. Methos closed his eyes, lulled by the beautiful sound, before a loud discordant crash and the repetitive shriek of the single word "Die!" shattered his eardrums. He jumped, tearing the headphones from his head. 

Darius was watching him sympathetically. "It's hardly 'She walks in beauty', is it," the old priest murmured.

"No. No, I can't say that it is." Methos reached up to rub his ears. "Still, at least he's creating *something*. It's been so long..."

He trailed off. Darius’s kind, wise eyes were regarding Methos with incredible understanding, and Methos decided it was time to talk about something new. Of course Darius understood the pain of watching a beloved student follow an unhealthy path—who better? That didn’t mean Methos wanted to talk about it. He cleared his throat, the universal signal for a change of subject. “Well, let’s leave modern times aside for a moment, shall we? I brought you a present.”

“From Nepal?”

“From a Watcher in Nepal. Or rather, from a Watcher’s grandmother.” Methos unzipped his pack and dug into the very bottom, removing an odiferous bundle of t-shirts. “And no, my dirty laundry is not the gift,” Methos said, seeing Darius’s pained expression. “Nor did I bring you a shirt with ‘My 5,000 year old friend went to Nepal and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’ printed on it. Camouflage, Darius. Always camouflage.” Methos quickly pulled aside the t-shirts, revealing a layer of clean cloth wrapped around a small square object. Suddenly reverent, Methos lifted the bundle with extreme care and sat it on the table. “I really should make you wash your hands,” he said. “It’s one of a kind and very, very precious.”

Darius looked excited. “A book? Some kind of religious text?”

“Better than that. A Watcher Chronicle.” Moving with great gentleness, Methos slowly removed the wrapping. He placed the book in front of Darius and spread its pages, carefully supporting the weak old binding with his fingers. “How’s your ancient German, old friend? Do you recognize the main character?”

Methos watched as the priest scanned the pages, his lips moving as he translated the words on the page. “Why…it’s about me!” Darius exclaimed after a moment, looking up at Methos with so much happiness that Methos felt his own heart swell. He’d known that Darius would truly appreciate the gift for what it was, and yet it was wonderful to see the depth of his reaction. It felt good to bring so much unexpected pleasure to his old friend. “Where did you find it, John?” Darius asked. “And how in the world did it end up in Nepal?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t think anyone knows, not even the people who had it. Khadka, the Nepali Watcher who acted as my guide during my trip, said this Chronicle had been in his family for years. The whole clan has been Watchers for generations. Khadka and I hit it off well enough that he took me home to see the book. You should have seen his grandmother, Darius. She was one hundred years old if she was a day, with all the dignity of a queen. She was quite reluctant to let me see the family’s most prized possession. But eventually she did.”

Darius began delicately turning pages, a look of deep awe on his face. “How did you ever convince her to part with it?”

“She said it was time for the book to find its way home. Khadka told her I was a researcher specializing in the ‘oldest of the old’. I think she wanted the Chronicle to join its brothers in the Paris library.” 

Methos mentally crossed his fingers behind his back. He wasn’t really ready to tell Darius the whole story just yet, not until he’d had a chance to think it over and decide what it meant. When he’d entered the traditional Nepali home, family and extended family all gathered to get a good look at Khadka’s western Watcher guest, he’d known immediately that Khadka’s grandmother was no ordinary woman. She had wise dark eyes that saw more truth in one glance that most mortals saw in an entire lifetime, and Methos wasn’t at all surprised to learn that the village generally considered her to be a seer. Khadka had gone to school in Europe long enough to be a bit embarrassed about this. When the grandmother had fixed Methos with a piercing gaze and asked in heavily accented English: “So. You walk with the Undying Ones?” the young man had stammered and apologized. “Watch, not walk, Grandmother,” Khadka had corrected her. “I’m sorry, Adam. She’s very old…”

“No, it’s all right,” Methos had answered. The grandmother’s eyes had been as vast and ageless as the sea. He’d known he’d had to answer with the truth. “Yes, Grandmother,” he’d answered calmly. “I have walked with many.”

She’d made a satisfied sound and pointed at the book. “And the Undying One who is written of here, you are his friend?”

Khadka had rolled his eyes. “Not friend, Grandmother,” he’d said. “Adam’s just a researcher. He doesn’t know any Immortals personally.”

“I said it was all right,” Methos had answered. “Yes, Grandmother. I know the Undying One this book speaks of very well. He lives in a holy place not far from where I live, in Paris.”

The grandmother had grunted in pleased kind of way, reaching out to touch Methos’s hands. The next thing Methos had known, she’d ordered a great-granddaughter to wrap up the book. A moment after that Methos was holding the bundle in his arms. “Take it with you,” she’d said. “Take it home.”

The rest of the family had been greatly shocked by this, and Methos had briefly wondered if he was going to make it out of the house in one piece. It was a bit like the matriarch of a good Catholic family suddenly deciding to give a complete stranger the family bible, the one that had the last ten generations of marriages and deaths written inside its cover. But Khadka’s grandmother was clearly the head of the clan, and her word was law. One flash of her eyes had silenced the shocked murmurs, even the ones from Khadka, and then she’d smiled at Methos and taken his hand. “You will take it home now,” she’d said clearly. “Not to your home…to the book’s home. It has waited a long, long time to go. You understand?” Methos had nodded and sworn that he would, knowing that home could only mean one place…

…and now he had fulfilled his promise. The book was safe and sound in Darius’s church, with its subject studying it tenderly on the table. “And so it has come home,” Darius murmured softly. “John, I can’t thank you enough. Would you…do you think you could leave it here for a few days before you take it to the Watchers? I would like a chance to study it before it disappears into the Watcher’s vaults.”

“I can do better than that, Darius. Keep it. I told you it was a gift.”

Darius was aghast. “But the Watcher library…the records…”

“Can remain incomplete,” Methos answered. “The Fifth Chronicle of Darius has been missing for a very long time by mortal standards, Darius. The Watchers have gotten by this long without it. A few more centuries won’t matter. If you ever get tired of it or decide you don’t want the responsibility of keeping it safe, let me know and I’ll take it off your hands. In the meantime, what the Watchers don’t know won’t hurt them.” He touched Darius affectionately on the shoulder. “We both know that it belongs with you.”

Darius clapped his hand over Methos’s for a brief, warm moment, his gratitude clearly showing in his eyes. Then he smiled slyly. “There wouldn’t be a mention or two of a certain Brother John in here that you don’t want your Watcher colleagues to discover, now would there?”

Methos smiled back, not in the least bit offended. It was good to be so well known. “Perhaps one or two,” he said. “You’ll have to read it to find out.”

“I will. John, I thank you. It is a priceless gift.” Darius skimmed a few more pages, then closed the book with a sigh, the kind of sigh given by a man who has just been seated at a magnificent banquet table and knows there is no possible way that he can sample all the delicacies spread before him before the banquet’s end. “This is quite the day for returning artifacts,” he said, resolutely pushing the book to the other side of the table, out of easy reach. “Just this morning another friend of mine brought me a bit of old MacLeod tartan she found in an antique shop. She said the dealer thought it dated back quite some time. I was planning to give it to my young friend Duncan when he came to see me tomorrow.”

“Duncan MacLeod?” Methos straightened in his chair, heart beating quickly for one irrational moment. He squelched the response as quickly as it came. He was being silly. It was ridiculous to assume that Duncan MacLeod’s presence in Paris meant his Watcher was here as well. In fact, with all the duties Joe had to attend to as Northwest Coordinator, it was almost a given that MacLeod would have been assigned a temporary Watcher the moment he left the United States. Still… “Duncan MacLeod is in Paris?”

“You didn’t know?”

“How could I? Darius, I just landed this morning, and I came here the moment I got through Customs. I haven’t even had a chance to change my socks yet. Let alone catch up on the latest exploits of your protégé.” Which had, Methos admitted silently, been high on his list of things to do, right after opening his apartment and picking up his mail. It had been several years, now, since Darius had first talked Methos into keeping an eye on the younger MacLeod’s Chronicle. Darius seemed to think the boy was worth getting to know, might even develop into a possible contender for the Prize. Methos secretly doubted that, but he hadn’t objected too strongly. Because reading Duncan MacLeod’s reports gave him a way to keep in touch, vicarious touch though it was, with Duncan MacLeod’s Watcher…

*Oh, Joe. Joe.* Methos closed his eyes for a moment, then resolutely forced them open again. Joe had made it very clear that he wanted no contact with Adam Pierson, didn’t even want to be friends. Still, that didn’t mean that Methos couldn’t keep an eye on the man through the informal but extraordinarily efficient Watcher gossip ring, and it didn’t mean that he couldn’t read Joe’s reports. After talking to Darius he’d happily made up a story about Young MacLeod being a possible acquaintance of Methos, and ever since then a copy of Joe’s weekly report had arrived on Adam Pierson’s desktop every Monday morning. Methos enjoyed reading them, enjoyed the flashes of Joe’s trademark humor that couldn’t help but enliven even the dullest report, and enjoyed having the constant assurance that Joe was alive and well even more. He’d missed the reports terribly while he was in Nepal. “Why?” he asked Darius now. “Has something interesting been happening?”

“Interesting,” Darius repeated. “Yes. That could be one word for it. Duncan has been…developing…at a most amazing rate.” The old priest steepled his fingers, looking very sad. “Did you know he took Grayson’s head?”

Methos straightened, startled. “Grayson?” Darius nodded slowly. “Darius. I am so sorry.”

Darius waved his hand dismissively. “I came to terms with the fact that Grayson had become a stranger to me centuries ago. It’s simply the way of the world. We do the best we can for our students for as long as we can, my friend. And then the rest is up to them.” He sighed. “Anyway, Grayson’s Quickening has given Duncan quite an astonishing amount of power. Quite astonishing indeed, for one so young. I’m afraid it’s been attracting several of the more…unsavory…members of our kind. He hasn’t gone more than a few weeks without a Challenge since the fall.”

Methos nodded slowly. Yes. Taking a massive Quickening like Grayson’s certainly could drastically change a young Immortal’s life. The buzz of power would call other Immortals like flies to honey, and if they suspected MacLeod was too young and unskilled to hang onto it—well, the Challenges would come without mercy. Methos could well understand Darius’s worry. “How’s he managing?”

“Quite extraordinarily, my friend.” Darius smiled. “I don’t think we need to worry about his character changing. So far, the power hasn’t unbalanced him at all. We can be grateful to Ms. Noel for that—she’s doing an excellent job of keeping Duncan’s feet on the ground. Still, fighting so many battles in such a short time is bound to take a toll. I must admit I’m worried.” Darius flexed his fingers, looked even more tense. “Especially if the rumors are true.”

“Which rumors?”

“That the Gathering has finally begun.”

Methos let out a sharp bark of laughter, convinced the old priest was having him on. When Darius didn’t laugh with him, he frowned. Darius couldn’t actually be serious, now could he? “The Gathering? Now? Darius, don’t be ridiculous. That bit of gossip gets rehashed every few hundred years, every time a new fighter becomes slightly notorious in the Game. And don’t forget that we’re facing a millennia change soon. Everyone’s on edge, expecting some kind of apocalypse. If there are rumors of the Gathering beginning now, it’s just the Immortal version of those fears. Nothing more.”

“I’m afraid there’s a little more to it than that, John. Quite a bit more.” Darius shook his head. “Forgive me, my friend, but you’ve been gone. I do not know what news you’ve heard. Did you know that Thackery has disappeared? And Grace? And Marta of Gaul? And quite a few others?”

“Darius, Immortals don’t just disappear. You know that. We either change identities when our neighbors get suspicious, or we lose our heads to a Challenger. We don’t just drop off the face of the earth.”

“That’s the way it has been for thousands of years, John. I’m afraid it may be that way no longer.” And Darius started to explain.

The whole story sent a cold chill down Methos’s spine. If anyone but Darius had told it, Methos might well have shrugged it off. But Darius knew an amazing number of Immortals personally…Methos sometimes rather pettishly thought of him as the rolodex of the over 500 set… and when he said the disappearances were not due to any of the usual causes, Methos had to believe him. As Darius talked on, Methos’s chill slowly grew into a full scale shiver. Immortals disappearing without a trace…not losing Challenges or changing identities, but simply vanishing from the face of the earth…was not a trend Methos wanted to see continue. “All right,” he said heavily, coming to his feet. “I will do some checking, see what the Watcher reports on the missing Immortals say. If there’s a logical explanation for this rash of disappearances, we’ll find it, old friend. And if there isn’t a logical explanation, well…we’ll find that, too.”

Darius looked immensely relieved. “Thank you, John. I’ve already shared my concerns with several of our kind—Grace and I talked about it just before she disappeared, and I plan to discuss it with Duncan tomorrow. But as yet no one but you and I know the Great Secret of the Watchers, and the Watcher Chronicles are really what we need. I knew I could count on you.” Methos looked down at the floor, slightly embarrassed by Darius’s faith in him. Darius’s voice grew serious. “John. Before you go, I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything, my friend.”

“You may not be so quick to agree when you know what it is,” Darius replied with a hint of humor. “I know how you feel about camouflage, John. I also know that you prefer to avoid most other Immortals. And since I cannot convince you to stay on holy ground, I cannot fault you for that…but I want you to promise me that you’ll make one exception.” He looked at Methos earnestly. “If something happens to me, I want you to get in touch with Duncan MacLeod. The two of you will need each other.”

Methos stared. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Darius?” Darius avoided his eyes. Methos felt his entire body tense. “Have you had a premonition?”

Darius gave him a tiny shrug accompanied by an even tinier smile. “I thought you didn’t believe in such things, Brother John.”

“I don’t,” Methos said staunchly. “I don’t believe in premonitions. Not nearly as much as I believe in the power of my own mind and sword to change what they foretell. But you’ve been right a few too many times over the years for my comfort, old friend. *Your* visions I will take seriously.” Darius inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. “Tell me the truth. Have you foreseen your own death?”

Darius waved his hands dismissively through the air. “’Foreseen’ is a bit too strong a word, my John. All I have are a few random images from dreams. But I will admit that I am…uneasy about what the future holds.” Darius caught Methos’s expression and sighed. “Just bring me the Watcher reports on our missing friends as soon as you can, John. I can ask no more.”

“I will come tomorrow,” Methos promised. “But it will have to be late, Darius. Possibly after midnight. The only reason I could come during the day today is that nobody knows I’m home yet. Once I’ve reported in, I’ll have to be more cautious.” His lip twisted bitterly. “After all, it wouldn’t do for young Adam Pierson to be caught being too friendly with Darius the Great.”

Darius nodded in understanding. “It’s all right, John. Duncan will be coming to visit tomorrow morning, probably accompanied by Hugh Fitzcairn. I’m sure the two of them can protect me until you arrive.”

This thought did not exactly fill Methos with confidence. He hesitated, then reached into his coat. There was the familiar sound of metal sliding past fabric and then he was holding his second backup sword, the blade gleaming in the light. Darius took a surprised step back. Methos turned the blade in his hand and offered the priest the pommel. “I know you keep no weapons here, Darius. Take this. Keep it by you.”

“No, John. I thank you, but I have not touched a sword in centuries. I am not about to start now.” The words were said gently, but Methos knew Darius’s tone. There was no point in arguing. “Besides,” Darius continued, a bit of humor lightening his voice. “What use can a sword possibly be on holy ground?”

“How about a small handgun, then?” Methos inquired, patting the hidden pocket where his more modern weaponry was stashed. When Darius only laughed Methos sighed. “Remember, holy ground can only protect you from other Immortals, Darius. A good sharp sword or a well-maintained gun can protect against so much more.”

“Ah, but I am a man of faith, John. Faith will be my shield.” Darius touched Methos’s arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Just go and see to our missing friends.”

“All right. I’ll be back tomorrow around midnight.”

***

In many ways, the great Watcher Library in Paris was more home to Methos than his flat. He’d spent more than one lifetime as a Watcher researcher there after all, happily whiling away the years in the safety and security of the stacks. But this time, when he showed his ID to the guard outside the complex and was allowed to drive inside, Methos felt no joy at his homecoming. He had slept badly, nightmares chasing around his head, Darius’s suspicions and premonitions refusing to let him rest in peace. If it had been possible, he would have gone to the Library to look up the missing Immortal’s files the second time he woke up sweating, around three a.m. As it was, he beat the entire morning staff and had to wait on the steps for someone to let him in. Fortunately, the day’s first arrival was Lindsey Clarke, a petite red-headed librarian who had possessed a fondness for Adam ever since his first year in the Academy. She stared at him in astonishment, then flung herself into his arms, hugging him enthusiastically. “Adam! When did you get back?”

He picked the librarian up off the steps—it was easy enough, Lindsey couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet—and swung her around in a circle. “Just yesterday, Lindsey.”

“What? And you came *here* your first morning back? Shouldn’t you be at home sleeping off the jet lag?” Methos shook his head and set Lindsey back down on her feet. She grinned up at him impishly as she unlocked the imposing front doors. “And my husband says *I’m* a workaholic. Honestly, Adam, don’t you know when to quit?”

“Apparently not,” he conceded as they walked inside, Lindsey turning on the lights as she went. “How are your daughters doing, Lindsey?”

“Just great. April especially, she’s going to the States for college next year. I do hope you remembered to bring her something from Nepal, Adam. The girl thinks she’s a practicing Zen Buddhist now. If her Uncle Adam forgot to bring her an authentic Tibetan singing bowl, she’ll be crushed.”

“I didn’t forget, Lindsey. It’s in my luggage, along with a prayer wheel and a few other things I thought she’d like. I’ll bring them around in a few days.” Methos cleared his throat. “Right now, though, I really need your help. Can you do me a favor? If I give you a list of half a dozen Immortals, could you look them up and tell me whether or not their files have been officially closed?”

She thought for a minute. “Well, I really should be cataloging, but frankly I’d be happy for an excuse to put that off,” she said. “Where’s the list?” He took it out of his pocket. Lindsey took it from him, scanned the names he’d written thoughtfully. “Hmmm. You’ve got some real power players on this list. Strange, all the names do seem familiar. I’m pretty sure we did move most of these files to the closed wing recently. Tell you what. You go start the coffee maker in the staff room and I’ll go check.” Methos did, adding an extra scoop to the ancient maker as he remembered Lindsey liked, while the librarian disappeared into the cavernous depths of the stacks. When she came back, she had six hefty manila file folders tucked under her arm. “Yup, it’s just as I thought. They’ve all been closed within the last month. Here, I pulled the files so you could read the final reports.”

Methos took the folders, feeling intense relief and sorrow all at once. The files were all tabbed in black, which could only mean one thing: the Immortals in question hadn’t just disappeared. Their beheaded bodies had actually been witnessed by at least one Watcher. *Darius, I am so sorry,* Methos thought as he thanked Lindsey for her efforts and moved to a study carrel where he could read the files alone. *Your friends simply fell to the sword, as have so many others before. I’ll go ahead and read the details so you can have some peace, but there’s nothing mysterious here. Nothing at all.* He opened the file on Grace Chandel, turning to the last page so he could at least tell Darius the name of her killer. He knew that the priest would like to know with whom Grace’s essence now resided.

But much to Methos’s surprise, Grace’s killer wasn’t identified. And neither were any of the others.

It was really very strange. All six Immortals had final reports that ended exactly the same way. “Head taken on x date by unidentified Immortal Challenger. Please see attached form for description of unidentified Immortal.” Methos started to get an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. Unidentified? While heaven knew that the Chronicles were far from complete, most Immortals with the age and skill to have defeated Darius’s friends should at least have had a rudimentary Watcher record. The information was often incomplete or spread across more than one name (Kronos currently had seven different Chronicles attributed to him, all under different assumed names that were guaranteed to get him into bar fights)—but the records were there. Methos hurried to read the descriptions of the anonymous victors, expecting them to all describe the same person. It was just barely possible that there was a brutal new player on the scene no one had ever heard of. If so, Methos needed to discover who it was, and get the word to Darius right away…

But the reports all described completely different people, two completely dissimilar men and four equally dissimilar women. The uneasy feeling in Methos’s stomach turned into an outright knot. The existence of one unknown, highly skilled new fighter Methos could accept. But six? And four of them female? It was brutal and unfair, but the simple truth was that very few Immortal women survived to any age—and those who did, like Amanda and Rebecca, were so famous in Watcher circles that they could be identified by even the rawest new Academy grad. But even more disturbing to Methos was the way these new Immortals were described. The reports were all vague, ridiculously simple recitations of height and race and hair color, much more suited to a passport than a Watcher file. Where were the details? Where was the in-depth information about fighting technique, clothing choices, language and slang used, and all the other things that would help the unknown fighter be identified later on? It was almost like the report writers had simply made the Challengers up, picking random characteristics out of the air and piecing them into a semi-plausible description of an Immortal being. What was going on?

Deeply troubled now, Methos asked Lindsey to pull all the final reports filed within the last three months. When she came back dragging not just one, but two, brim-full library carts, Methos was staggered. God. So many deaths. No wonder Darius believed that the Gathering had begun. Methos thanked Lindsey and got to work, sorting out the kills attributed to Immortals he knew personally or by reputation—but even when he’d taken out the rather excessive number dispatched by young MacLeod, Methos was left with a hefty stack of uncredited kills. Most were attributed to more of the mysterious, badly described, unidentified Immortals. A few had simply been discovered beheaded by their Watchers with no other Immortal in sight. “The really strange thing,” one young Watcher wrote, “was that there appeared to have been no Quickening. Or if there was, it must have been an extraordinarily gentle one. The blood spray on the walls clearly demonstrates that Madison was beheaded within the garden shed, and yet everything inside the building was intact—not so much as a shattered window or a single broken clay pot. Perhaps Madison was simply too young to have engendered the kind of destructive phenomena I was trained to expect?”

Methos shook his head, feeling his hands start to tremble. He turned a page, found a memo that told him that the young Watcher in question had been temporarily removed from the field following his “obviously fantastic misinterpretation of the death scene.” The Counsel clearly believed that there was no such thing as an Immortal death without a Quickening. And they were right, so far as they knew. Certainly it didn’t matter how young or how inexperienced an Immortal was when he lost his final challenge; even the youngest had enough power to destroy a small city block when he was beheaded. But Methos knew something the Counsel did not. He knew that the Quickening went nowhere, would stay locked inside the dead Immortal forever, if there were no other Immortals within range to receive it. 

That meant that Madison’s killer had not been Immortal. 

That meant…

Methos grabbed his coat and hurried out of the Library. He had to get to Darius.

He was too late. He knew it the moment he pulled up in front of the church. Darius’s buzz—so comforting, so familiar, such an inextricable part of the church for so very long—was absent. The cramp that had been in the pit of Methos’s stomach ever since he started reading the files crept up into his chest, circled his heart and squeezed. Part of him, perhaps all of him, already knew what he was going to find when he walked inside. He knew…

But he parked anyway, carefully locked the car and tucked the keys into his pocket, and walked into the building with every appearance of serenity. Not even the scent of blood that greeted him the moment he opened the doors disturbed his apparent calm. He walked inside, noting the scattered chairs with a detached, clinical mind, observing in a completely analytical way that there were no scorch marks, broken glass or any other evidence of a Quickening to be seen. In fact, he was so intent on cataloging the precise number of chairs that had been overturned and the hymnbooks that had been scattered that he almost missed the body. It was, after all, crumpled on the floor behind a column rather like an abandoned rag doll, the cassock a simple pour of wrinkled cloth that gave no clue that it had ever clothed a human being. It wasn’t until Methos saw Darius’s head, disheveled dark hair soaking in a puddle of bright red blood about six feet from the body, that Methos stopped and sank to his knees. The cold of old, old stones soaked through his jeans, their uneven surface scraping his skin, but Methos didn’t care. Part of him was already weeping, wailing over the loss of his friend, too lost in internal pain to even register something as trivial as a skinned knee.

The rest of him was deep in thought.

He didn’t think about their friendship, or the grief he would now have to suffer alone. He didn’t even think about how horrible it was that Darius’s unique essence had been lost forever; that was a hurt so great he might never be able to let himself think about it completely. Instead, he thought about what he knew. 

Mortals were killing Immortals. Not randomly, not accidentally, but with a definite plan. The attacks were so well orchestrated that, as near as Methos could tell, at least one Immortal was dying nearly every week. That meant that the mortals involved didn’t just know what Immortals were and how to kill them: they also knew who they were, where they lived, and when they were likely to be alone. And that meant that the killers weren’t ordinary mortals at all.

It meant that they were Watchers.

Watchers. Watchers were killing Immortals. What could Methos do, who could he tell, who could he trust? It couldn’t just be one rogue individual. There had been too many deaths, too many cover-up reports filed in the archives, for it to be anything less than a full-blown conspiracy. That meant that anyone, any of the people Methos worked with and called friend, could be a part of it. 

He was all alone.

Anguished, desperately resisting the urge to vomit, Methos got to his feet and stumbled into Darius’s office. The sight of the chess set, neatly set up on Darius’s table in anticipation of a game, almost overrode Methos’s control: he had to stand in the middle of the room for several very long moments, willing himself not to break down. There would be no more chess games. No more laughter. No more honey mead, never again; no one had ever talked Darius into surrendering his secret formula. The mead was now as lost to history as Darius’s Quickening. All gone…The bitter pang of grief was so intense that Methos almost missed the fact that the chess set had not been laid out for him: Darius had placed two of the black pawns neatly to the side the way masters often did when facing less experienced players, which Methos certainly was not. Arranged next to it, probably just where Darius’s hands had last sat them down, was Darius’s Fifth Chronicle and a scrap of tartan fabric. Macleod Tartan. Darius’s last gift for the Highlander.

Perhaps Methos wasn’t alone as he had thought.

The plan came together in an instant. Methos swooped down and snatched up both tartan and book, conscious of an intense need for speed. The Highlander could arrive at any moment, and would probably assume that any Immortal found in the same building as Darius’s decapitated body was Darius’s murderer. Methos had to move quickly, then, leave a clue that MacLeod would find and that the police would not, and then get the hell out of there. He grabbed a quill from Darius’s desk, flipped open the Chronicle, and inscribed a simple address on the flyleaf before he turned and faced the wall. Darius used to have a hiding place—

Yes. There it was, right where that fake beam protruded from the wall. Never mind the sudden flush of memories the sight of the hidden cavity inspired. Methos didn’t have time to mourn. He thrust the book into the hole, tearing a bit of fabric free to hang outside. There. If the Highland child had half the potential Darius thought he did, he would find it. “I’m sorry, Darius,” Methos murmured softly. “I can’t keep my promise. I can’t help the boy myself, not now. Life has become much too uncertain for me to take such a risk. But perhaps there is still one Watcher in the world I can trust, one who already knows him. Perhaps together, they can make things right.”

Methos shoved the false beam back into place and left the church at a run.

 

**_~Seacouver, Early June 1993~_ **  
**_~Two weeks later~_ **

 

The day that changed Joseph Dawson’s life forever started out just like any other day. Joe woke up, showered, ate breakfast, and drove to Juniper Street, fully expecting a quiet, uneventful morning. When he reached the bookstore, the door was already unlocked and the lights were on: Joe’s love-struck young assistant Robert had arrived early yet again. Joe shook his head as he pushed his way inside. Ever since Robert and Joe’s niece Lynn had gotten engaged, Robert had been working overtime to win Joe’s good opinion. Joe was really going to have to take the kid aside and let him know that he already had it, or Robert was going to give himself a heart attack before he and Lynn ever made it to the altar. Joe nodded at the one or two early-morning customers browsing the shelves and went into the teeny weeny little elevator located at the back of the shop, punching the button for the second floor. 

As always, he thought of Adam when he pressed the button. It had been the young researcher who had first added the elevator to the renovation plans. (“It’s not for you, Joe,” Adam had said, wide eyed and innocent, when Joe had protested that he could use the stairs just like everyone else. “It’s for your next poker IOU who gets stuck hauling the latest stack of Watcher paperwork up to the second floor. Think of it as a glorified dumbwaiter, all the finest bookstores have them. All right?”) Joe had given in. Today, nearly seven years later, with a bit of arthritis starting to settle into his hip joints, Joe was glad he had. The stairs were getting a little difficult to manage more than once or twice a day, and he really didn’t want to move his personal office down to the ground floor. It was much better being on the second floor by the railing, where he could keep his eye on everything that went on below. Even if sometimes the only interesting thing happening was Robert furtively sneaking peaks at the picture of Lynn he kept stashed beneath the cash register, as he was doing now. Yes, it looked like it was going to be a completely ordinary day. Joe grinned to himself and sat down at his desk. 

His first indication that things were not going to be so normal after all came when the phone rang, just as he was settling in with a cup of coffee to go over the latest field reports. “Juniper Street,” he said, then smiled when he heard the characteristically dry voice of his brother-in-law, James Horton. “Hey, good morning!” Joe said sunnily. “How’s the proudest father in the western hemisphere?”

“I am quite all right, thank you Joseph,” Horton responded. “I’ve just been having an argument with Lynn over the catering arrangements for her party tonight. You are still coming, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know that.” Joe reached out fondly to touch his own picture of Lynn, one taken nearly a decade before Robert’s, sitting proudly on his desk. In it, he and James were standing behind a lovely blonde twelve-year-old girl dressed in a softball uniform, all three wearing smiles that were as wide as was humanly possible. “I’ve been really looking forward to eating some good food, drinking some good wine, and telling all the embarrassing stories about Lynn’s childhood that I possibly can. Figure that’s the least a proud Uncle can do.”

Horton sniffed. “Well, the wine I can promise you, but I’m not sure about the food,” he said. “Lynn has insisted on a buffet.”

Joe suppressed his laughter. Horton had said “buffet” as if in his mind the catered party would now be hardly more than one step above a tailgate party at a ball game. “Well, look at it this way,” Joe said. “College has clearly matured her tastes. She could have insisted on the same caterers you had for her high school graduation party.” He grinned. “Although I must say I did enjoy the Happy Meals.”

“Yes. I suppose I should be grateful that Lynn has matured to the point where she no longer needs a toy to accompany her food.” Horton’s voice became more serious. “Joe, I hate to change the subject, but I really must discuss business. Have you read the morning reports?”

Joe felt his eyebrows rise. Horton was technically his boss, being the Watcher coordinator for the entire Western US, but it was very rare for him to contact Joe by phone about work. “No, I just sat down at my desk,” Joe said. “I haven’t even had a chance to check my e-mail yet. Why? Is there something interesting?”

“I should say so,” Horton said. “It appears that Darius the Great has lost his head at last.”

Joe’s breath caught. He felt the whole world freeze for a moment, shatter, and then reassemble itself—identical to almost all outward appearances, but irrevocably changed. “No. Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Horton replied. “His body was cremated a few days ago. Your assignment scattered his ashes in the Seine.”

Joe rested his weary head against his hand. “MacLeod would do that,” he said. “He and Darius were very close.” The desk seemed to blur in front of him. Joe reached up and wiped at his eyes. *One of the best is gone,* he thought. *The world is a darker place now. God be good to you, Darius.* Horton cleared his throat. Joe hastened to get a hold on his emotions and ask the next question. “Who took him out?”

“We don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Joe was incredulous. “What, was Ian off duty that day?”

“Ian Bancroft was attending a conference in Madrid that week,” Horton replied. “It wasn’t thought necessary to assign a replacement for so short a time. Darius was hardly an active participant in the Game, after all.”

“No. I know.” Joe took this news in bleakly. Of course nobody would think it important enough to assign a replacement to a priest who never left holy ground. “But I just can’t believe we have no idea who killed him. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, should it? I mean, it had to have been somebody Darius knew. He would never have left the church for a stranger…”

“Get a hold of yourself, Joseph,” Horton said severely. “It is sad news, I agree, but it is hardly your responsibility. I only mention it because it means that your friend Mr. Bancroft will be up for reassignment, and this time he’s requested a job in administration rather than another field assignment. I was wondering if you could find a place for him.”

“Me? Find a place for Ian? Of course I can,” Joe answered. “I could use a hand breaking in the new recruits. You know Hamburg just sent me six new bodies to train…not a one of them out of the Academy for more than a year…”

“It’s your own fault, Joseph. If you didn’t do such a good job supervising your people—not to mention running the only Watcher cover in existence to make a profit—you wouldn’t have such problems.” Horton said grudgingly. Joe smiled weakly. A compliment, even a back-handed one, from Horton was rare. It was too bad he still too upset about Darius’s death to fully appreciate it. “So that’s settled,” Horton continued. “I will have Mr. Bancroft report to you as soon as he arrives in Seacouver. I think you’ll be pleased to have him, Joseph. It will be good for you to have someone you can trust to take over some of your administrative duties, now that your own vacation from active field work is about to end. Your assignment has returned to Seacouver.”

“What?” Joe stared. “MacLeod’s in town? Nobody told me!”

“It was not an oversight, Joseph. You know that we decided not to put an experienced Watcher on MacLeod when he returned to France. Instead he was made the test subject for this year’s senior class at the Academy…”

Joe nodded. The kids had to get their feet wet somehow, and MacLeod’s stand-out appearance and regular daily schedule made him easy for an inexperienced Watcher to track. “Yeah, I know,” Joe said. “I envy those kids. MacLeod’s a lot more exciting than the assignment I had my last year at the Academy. It was Old Lady Myrtle, do you remember her? I crouched in her back garden in the rain for two whole weeks, and the most exciting thing she ever did was feed her cats. Well, tell me about MacLeod. I take it he managed to give the kids the slip?”

“He did indeed. It was only the purest of chance that one of our agents happened to recognize Mr. MacLeod and Ms. Noel purchasing their tickets at the airport. Apparently their decision to leave Paris was very last minute.” Horton sounded deeply displeased. “I myself wasn’t notified until a few hours ago.”

“Well, that’s the way the ball bounces,” Joe said resignedly. “I’m glad you told me, James. Do you know if they are planning to reopen the antique shop?”

“I really have no idea, Joseph.”

“Never mind. I’m sure that’s where they’re going. MacLeod has a habit of returning to his old haunts over and over, and he and Tessa were pretty happy running that business. I’ll swing by tonight, try to make visual contact. If I’m not successful, I’ll start looking at his credit card records, and get everyone to keep an eye out until we track him down. Sound good?”

“Excellent as always, Joseph. I—”

But Joe never heard the rest of Horton’s sentence. The bell on the front door had jingled merrily a few seconds before, but that wasn’t what distracted him. Rather, it was the storewide gasp of breath that followed the tinkle, a gasp that was followed sharply by an eerie, unnatural silence. Joe looked down over the railing, and felt his own breath catch. Standing just inside his bookshop, surveying the rows of shelves, was a striking masculine figure…tall, dark haired, and more familiar to Joe than some of the members of Joe’s own family. “Oh my god.” Joe said. The words came out as a whisper.

“Joseph?” Horton sounded mildly alarmed. “Joseph, is something wrong?”

“Um, no. Not wrong, not exactly. Unprecedented, certainly, but not wrong.” Joe took a deep breath. “James, I’m going to have to hang up now. And we won’t have to issue that bulletin about MacLeod. I know exactly where he is.”

“Indeed?” Horton sounded curious. “And just where would that be, Joseph?”

“One story below me. He just walked into my bookshop.”

It was true. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had just entered Juniper Street Books.

***

The second Joe hung up the phone he hurried to the railing for a better look. He wasn’t the only one. All through the store, stunned Watcher faces were turning toward the front door. The eerie silence stretched on and on, making the shop seem more like an accident scene than a place of business. *Well, here’s one for the record books,* Joe thought. *They sure as hell never covered this in the Academy. Just what is the proper procedure to follow when an Immortal walks smack dab into the middle of your secret headquarters? I can’t blame the kids for being surprised—hell, you could knock me over with a feather if you wanted to—but god, we’re being obvious. Somebody has got to say something soon, or MacLeod will know something’s wrong…*

Fortunately, if the Highlander noticed the stir his entrance had caused, he didn’t let on. He just walked confidently through the shop, looking at a book here and frowning at an antique weapon there. For the first time Joe cursed the hubris of putting the Seacouver archive’s collection of fallen Immortal swords up on the bookstore walls. It had seemed like a fitting (and amusing) bit of décor when Horton had first suggested it, but now the arrogance of the move astounded Joe. Then again, neither Joe nor his brother-in-law had ever expected an actual Immortal to just walk in off the street, had they? Joe cursed under his breath and headed for the stairs, walking down them as quickly as his prosthetic legs would allow, in too much of a hurry to wait for the elevator. He had to get down there, fast. He had to be the first one to meet the Highlander, before one of his youthful crew gave the game away…

When Joe reached the ground floor he glanced around wildly. MacLeod had disappeared amongst the shelves, but Joe didn’t need visual contact to know where he was. A steady succession of muffled thuds, clearly made by stunned Watcher hands dropping whatever they happened to be carrying, accompanied the Highlander’s progress through the shop. Joe limped down a corridor of shelving and turned the corner, only to see what was quite possibly his worst nightmare: Duncan MacLeod speaking directly to Joe’s nephew-to-be Robert. Eager and a good match for Lynn the lad might be, but he’d been born to be an administrator, not a field agent. Robert was clearly about to pee his pants at finding himself face to face with Joe’s assignment. Joe had no choice but to step in. He took a moment to catch his breath and smooth his hair, then pasted on his best salesman’s smile and walked forward. “It’s all right, I’ll handle this,” he said to the young Watcher, who nodded gratefully and disappeared. “Can I help you?”

MacLeod, apparently quite relieved to have found someone capable of saying more than “huh?”, turned to face him. Joe felt his heart skip a beat. Dear god, but the man was gorgeous. Of course, Joe had already known this; you couldn’t Watch a man like MacLeod for as long as Joe had without drawing a few obvious conclusions. But seeing him through a pair of binoculars was nothing like actually standing next to him, nothing like having that tall, taught body towering over him and those dark brown eyes looking directly into his face. No. It was nothing like it all. 

“Hello,” Duncan MacLeod said. He wore a slightly forced smile that Joe recognized at once, having seen it on MacLeod’s face thousands of times before. The Highlander used it whenever he felt out of place and was counting on his personal charm to see him through. “I’m in the antique business,” the Immortal continued. “I’ve come across an old book, but I really can’t tell much about it. Can you?” He held out the book in his hands, and Joe almost fell over from surprise. The book MacLeod was holding was a Watcher Chronicle.

And not just any Chronicle. Joe could tell *that* in just one glance. The book was very, very old, and very, very precious. In all his years Joe had only seen a handful like it, and then only deep within the vaults at the Great Library in Paris. With a great effort Joe controlled his reaction and held out his hands for the book. MacLeod let him take it. Joe made a show of rifling the pages, inspecting the binding and the cover, trying his best to look like any bored book dealer. MacLeod studied his face closely while he did, which was probably a very good thing. The Chronicle had the Watcher symbol conspicuously tooled into the leather cover, and Joe couldn’t quite trust himself to keep his wrist turned to the floor. It was hard enough to keep his hands from trembling. “I’m afraid it’s not really worth very much in this condition,” he said.

“I’m really just curious,” MacLeod answered.

*I’ll just bet you are,* Joe thought. *Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Watchers have given their lives over the millennia to keep this secret from your kind…and here you have it, clasped between two battered leather covers. How did you get it, MacLeod? Do you have any idea what it is you’ve found?* Joe turned a few more pages, noting that the Chronicle was written in an archaic form of German that was too obscure for him to read, at least not without a few weeks of study. If only he could read it now! Just the handful of pages he had time to scan under MacLeod’s watchful eye might hold a priceless historical treasure. “Beautiful illustrations,” Joe said, trying to come up with an excuse to hold onto the book just a little bit longer. “Probably done by monks.”

For some reason, it was the wrong thing to say. At the word “monk” MacLeod gave him a piercing stare, and a second later Joe knew why. His eye had lit upon the word “Darius” written several times in the ancient script. Oh dear lord. Not just any Chronicle, indeed. This was a Chronicle of the Highlander’s recently deceased mentor. “Perhaps,” MacLeod said coolly, stepping closer. “Ever seen it before?”

“No.” Joe said quickly, much too quickly. Cursing himself, he quickly rustled through all the pages, desperately trying to memorize every single thing he saw. “I might be interested in buying it,” he offered.

Macleod flashed him a wide, toothy smile that was intended to warn as much as charm. It told Joe clearly that the Highlander no longer trusted a word he said. “I thought you said it wasn’t worth very much.”

“Oh, it’s for me,” Joe assured. “I, uh…I have a weakness for beautiful things.”

Fuck. He was really losing it now. Not only was he acting suspiciously, he had also just given MacLeod one of the cheesiest pick up lines in history. What the hell was he going to do next, bat his eyelashes and wiggle his hips? Fortunately, MacLeod didn’t even seem to notice the sexual implications of the statement. Thank god for the amazing obliviousness of lifelong heterosexuals. “Thanks,” the Highlander said sharply. “Not for sale.”

“Are you sure? I’ll give you a fair price,” Joe countered. *Hell yeah, of course I will, and not just because I know the General Fund will reimburse me. I’ve got to find out how you got this book, MacLeod.* Joe turned to the flyleaf, hoping to see some kind of signature or date. And frowned.

Written on the flyleaf were a short series of numbers and letters in a very modern hand, the strokes bold and black against the yellowing page. “27 N.J.S., 98006”. What the hell? That was the address of the bookshop, complete with zip code—and stranger still was the fact that the handwriting seemed oddly familiar. Joe squinted at it for a long moment…

…and his heart nearly stopped. Of course that handwriting was familiar to him. He’d read and re-read the last thing that hand had ever written to him a thousand times, could see the shape of each letter in his mind without even having to open the desk drawer where the note still lay. “Not for the bookshop, not for any reason. Just because I thought it should belong to you.” Adam hadn’t needed to sign that message, and he didn’t have to sign this one, either. Joe knew who had written it.

Adam Pierson had written the address of Juniper Street Books inside this Chronicle.

MacLeod held out his hands. “Thanks anyway,” he said.

Joe resisted the urge to the clutch the book to his chest. Suddenly, those pages had become something infinitely more precious than just a missing Chronicle. All Joe wanted to do was to keep it, read it, find out why Adam had written Joe’s address inside the cover. But there was no time. MacLeod was clearly growing more suspicious by the minute, and Joe really couldn’t blame him. He knew he was acting about as subtly as a fox in a hen house. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’m Joe. Joe Dawson,” he said, knowing it was hopeless. MacLeod just nodded his acknowledgment, tucked the book under his arm, and headed for the exit. He went out the door, slipping on his sunglasses as he went.

Joe watched as MacLeod hesitated just outside the front display window, then turned sharply and walked down the alley. Joe watched him disappear, thinking deeply. Then, mind made up, Joe wheeled around himself and slipped out the store’s back door, determined to follow.

He was a Watcher. It was time for him to Watch.

***

Less than forty-eight hours later, Joe stood inside the Seacouver Memorial Hospital, his Watcher Oath in shreds, his nephew-to-be murdered, and his faith in God and man severely shaken. He hobbled to the pay phone located in the cold hospital waiting room and laboriously dialed a long international number. The phone line clicked and buzzed; Joe groaned softly as he waited for the number to connect, allowing his tired body to sag against the wall. It had been one hell of a night. At long last he heard the line connect, and the briskly efficient tones of the Watcher Headquarters’ secretary sounded in his ear. “Name and title please.”

“Joe Dawson, Area Coordinator for the Pacific Northwest, United States, North America.”

“Password?”

“Swordfish.”

“Thank you. One moment please.” There was a brief pause. Then the secretary said in a much more cordial tone: “Good evening, Mr. Dawson. Or should I say good morning?” Joe squinted at an overhead clock: it was just after four a.m. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest that the secretary knew exactly what time it was in Seacouver. “To whom may I connect you?”

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “It had better be Jacque Vemas,” he said. “I have a security breach to report.”

There was another pause, this one slightly startled. Then: “Security breaches should be reported directly to your national supervisor, Mr. Dawson. Shouldn’t you be taking this up with Mr. Horton?”

“I can’t. James was the one responsible for the breach.”

This time the pause lasted nearly a second. “I see. One moment, please.” And he was transferred to another line.

The sounds of an obscure Mozart concertina filled his ears as he waited. Joe stretched awkwardly, realizing that he was aching in every muscle. When he looked down, he saw that the sport coat and pants he’d put on in honor of Lynn’s graduation party were now liberally spattered with blood. James’s blood. The blood of Joe’s own brother-in-law, who had admitted to murdering Darius the Great and god knew how many other Immortals, just before he’d put several bullets into Duncan MacLeod’s chest. Right before MacLeod had struck back, skewering James with his katana…

Oh, yes. It had indeed been one hell of a night.

There was a click in his ear, then a voice Joe just vaguely recognized. “Vemas here. Is this Mr. Joe Dawson?”

“Yes, Mr. Vemas.”

“I am told you have a security breach to report. Please proceed.”

So Joe did. He started with MacLeod’s appearance at Juniper Street and his possession of the Chronicle, how Joe had followed him out into the alley and broken his Watcher Oath in an attempt to gain MacLeod’s trust and discover just how he’d gotten his hands on the ancient book. Joe didn’t try to whitewash this in any way, and part of him wondered if he was busy signing his own death warrant, but it couldn’t be helped. The horrifying truth had to be told. Joe told Vemas all about his first honest conversation with the Highlander, the way MacLeod had insisted that Darius had been murdered by men wearing the Watcher tattoo; Joe’s voice shook as he described the events that later proved this accusation to be true, including the shooting and stabbing on the warehouse floor. When he finished, there was a lengthy silence before Vemas spoke, hie voice carefully controlled. “Thank you for your promptness in bringing this matter to our attention, Mr. Dawson. I am officially initiating Security Procedure Alpha. All Watcher operations in the city of Seacouver are hereby suspended. The premises known as Juniper Street Books are to be cleansed of any evidence of Watcher activity, including all Watcher files and Immortal artifacts. Then the property and all non-Watcher assets will be placed for immediate sale. Do you understand?”

Joe nodded. It hurt, the thought of losing the store that had been his daily work for so long, but it was hardly unexpected. “I do.”

“Good. You will now furnish me with the names of all the Watchers who witnessed the presence of the Immortal Duncan MacLeod within the store, as well as any who had contact with James Horton within the last two years. Begin.”

Joe hesitated. The bookstore closure he’d expected, but this? “Jacque, I’d really rather not. Most of the kids who worked in the bookstore were fresh out of the Academy. They don’t need to face a full Tribunal.”

“I think I must be the judge of that, Mr. Dawson,” came the cool reply. “If your story is to be believed, Horton has been recruiting his killers from amongst our own ranks—and it makes sense that he would have targeted the newest and most vulnerable of us. The names, please.” Slowly, reluctantly, Joe gave the names of all the people who had worked under him, as well as a few he knew Horton had taken aside for “special” assignments. Like Robert. Oh, god. Robert… “Thank you,” Vemas said crisply. “Is that all? The name of every Watcher involved?”

A vision of clear black letters inscribed on a yellowing flyleaf rose before Joe’s eyes. Just how the hell was Adam involved in all this? Joe didn’t know, and neither did Duncan MacLeod—Joe had asked several subtle-but-probing questions during their time together that proved the Highlander had never heard of Adam Pierson or anyone remotely like him. Joe knew he should tell the truth, should tell Vemas what he had found inside the book, but he couldn’t. At least not until he understood what had really happened. “Yes,” he said clearly. “There were no other Watchers involved.”

“What about civilians?”

“Just one, my niece, Lynn Maria Horton. She witnessed Horton’s stabbing.”

For the first time there was a hint of compassion in Vemas’s voice. “How is she?”

“Not well,” Joe answered. “They’re keeping her under sedation in the psychiatric ward.” His hand shook on the phone receiver. “Jacque, Lynn is not a security threat. She knows nothing about the Watchers. Horton and I kept her in ignorance the whole time she was growing up. All she knows now is that her father murdered her fiancé along with several other people, and that a friend of one of his other victims caught up with him. I would like her to be left in peace if at all possible.”

“We will take that under advisement, Joe,” Vemas said, and Joe knew from the tone of voice and the use of his first name that the Coordinator really meant it. The voice hardened. “And the traitor Horton? What is his status?”

Joe winced. *The Traitor Horton,* he thought. *As far as Vemas is concerned, he’s already been convicted.* He looked down the hall toward the surgery where James probably had only a few hours left to live, then looked the other way toward the ward where they had taken Lynn, and made another snap decision. Well, why not? This was certainly the day for them. “He died on the way to the hospital.”

“A pity. I would have liked to see him live to face Watcher justice,” Vemas responded, in such a cold tone that Joe shivered. “Very well. Mr. Dawson, I must now inform you that your commission has been officially revoked pending a full inquiry into this matter. You will not perform any Watcher duties until further notice. Nor will you attempt to contact any Watcher, not even those who you consider to be personal friends. Do you understand?”

“I…” Once again the memory of Adam’s writing flashed through Joe’s mind. “I’m not allowed to contact anyone?”

“No one,” came the uncompromising reply. “This is for their protection as well as yours, Joe. You are to consider yourself under house arrest, except for those times when you are required to be at the hospital to tend to your niece. We will be in contact shortly.” And Vemas hung up.

Joe listened to the dial tone for a long, long time. Then he hung up as well.

 

**_~Paris, February 1994~_ **  
**_~Five Months Later~_ **

 

Methos pulled the latest addition to his Adam Pierson persona, an ancient Volvo sedan almost as decrepit as Donald Salzer's legendary Volkswagen, into the huge circular driveway of Don and Christine's luxurious Parisian home. Light spilled from the house’s every window, and the second Methos opened his car door he could hear the unmistakable sounds of a live orchestra tuning up. *Oh, no,* he thought to himself. *Small, intimate gathering, indeed. Christine, you've done it yet again.* 

He parked the car and set the brake, looking in exasperation at the inexpensive bottle of wine sitting on the wagon’s broken down bucket seat. Methos always made a point of bringing some such token with him whenever he dined at the Salzer’s. Despite the fact that Christine’s family cellars already held many vintages Adam Pierson could only dream about affording, Christine was always very pleased when he remembered a hostess gift, and never failed to comment on his thoughtfulness. However, from the looks of things, tonight his gift was going to be even more superfluous than usual. *Oh, Christine. One of these days your habit of understatement is going to get someone into serious trouble,* Methos thought. *If I’d had any warning that tonight’s ‘small, intimate gathering’ was going to be the Parisian social event of the season, I’d have come up with some kind of excuse. Even if it did leave Don to cope with the aristocrats on his own.* Methos looked at the array of expensive cars parked around him—he could see several Mercedes and even a Bentley or two keeping company with Christine's tidy Rolls—and sighed. *Oh well. Don’s too good a friend to throw to the wolves, and Christine did promise to have a ‘special guest’ I wouldn’t want to miss. I might as well go see what she’s got planned.*

He left the bottle in the car and started walking along the rows of parked cars, noting with a grin that Don’s beloved Volkswagen was conspicuously absent. It never failed to amuse Methos, the situation in which his mentor had found himself. Christine had been living in rooms at the Watcher HQ during Don’s courtship, and so Don hadn’t known anything about Christine’s family background before he proposed. In fact, the old researcher had remained blissfully unaware of the kind of wealth he’d married into until several months after the honeymoon, when Christine had gleefully presented him with the keys to this townhouse, the vast Dummond family country estate, and half a dozen other equally valuable properties as a birthday gift. Methos had been there at the time, and the memory of Don’s shocked expression still had the power to make him chuckle. Don was a man of simple needs and simpler tastes, who saw nothing wrong in driving the Volkswagen and wearing the same patched sweater to work nearly every day. Christine kept trying to change him, but apart from parking his car behind the house when guests were present, Don was proving a difficult nut to crack. Methos secretly hoped he never would.

The butler took Methos’s coat at the door and ushered him into the first floor ballroom. Methos took a good look around at the expertly restored 18th century French architecture and saw a room full of somber, well groomed people wearing somber, well groomed suits. He recognized a good ninety percent of the faces, and had to whistle softly under his breath. Christine had certainly been ambitious with her guest list tonight. The room was filled with Watcher aristocracy; Methos recognized both the head of European Operations and the woman in charge of the organization’s legal arm, a fact that did not bode well for the success of the party. The entire Watcher organization was under extreme stress at the moment, still reeling from the revelation of James Horton’s crimes and the number of Watchers he had corrupted. A gathering of the highest ranking was sure to be a very tense, stressful affair, and Methos had to suppress an involuntary chill of foreboding as he helped himself to a glass of champagne. Maybe he could just pay his respects to Don and Christine and leave early…

But as the bubbles tickled his nose and the alcohol started percolating through his bloodstream, he forced himself to look at the bright side. None of the Watchers assembled here were likely to even know lowly researcher Adam Pierson’s name, much less recognize his face. He should be able to stick to the shadows, observe without attracting any attention. You never knew when you might see or hear something that could help your future career. Besides, the fact that the party was Watchers-only meant that Methos wouldn’t have to spend the evening fending off yet another of the young female Dummonds Christine kept trying to fix him up with. He did see--what was her name again? Jillion something?--another protégé of Don's that Christine kept hinting Methos should pay attention to, and thought with resignation that he would probably end up sitting with her at dinner. Not only would Christine doubtless engineer the seating arrangement to make sure that he did, the girl was the only other ordinary researcher Methos could see in the room, and thus the only person present he could actually imagine having a conversation with. Don had her working on translating some of Rebecca’s older Chronicles, didn’t he? That would be a much more interesting topic than grouse shooting or Alpine skiing or whatever it was all the other big wigs were talking about. Methos dropped his empty champagne glass on a passing servant’s tray and started making his way across the polished ballroom floor, determined to introduce himself to the girl before Christine saw him and did it for him. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a total loss, after all.

But the genteel clinking of a spoon on wine glass distracted him. And suddenly Methos had more than enough other things to think about.

Christine Salzer stood just outside the ballroom's west entrance, beaming at the crowd of guests. "Thank you all for coming," she said when the assembly quieted down. Her voice was sweet, if slightly too saccharine. "Most of you know that Don and I have a very special guest tonight. The time has come to unveil him!” There was a gentle murmur of approval and curiosity from the crowd. Methos smiled. Christine certainly knew how to milk a moment. “Now, our guest just flew in from Seacouver yesterday, and is only able to visit Paris for a short time, but I know you'll all join Don and me in helping him make the most of it,” she continued. “Please welcome our dear friend Joe." She stepped aside. And an extremely uncomfortable looking Joe Dawson limped his way through the door.

Joe wasn't the only uncomfortable one. The entire room had quieted to dead silence. Nobody seemed very pleased by the surprise. In fact, the expression on most of the Watcher's faces was downright hostile. *It’s because of Horton,* Methos realized. *And MacLeod. They're not seeing Joe, not really. They're seeing the first Watcher in history to break cover to an Immortal—or at least the first one who was ever honest enough to turn himself in. Oh, god. Joe must be in Paris to face the Tribunal. Did anybody think to tell Christine?*

One look at Christine told Methos the answer to that question. Christine had taken to her retirement with gusto, refusing to allow Don to talk shop at home. It was quite probable that she knew nothing of Horton’s betrayal. And while Christine may not be especially fond of Joe—she always changed the subject quickly whenever Methos asked Don about him in her presence—she would never have purposefully sabotaged a party. Christine looked baffled, terribly confused and hurt that Joe's reception wasn't what she’d planned. Behind her, Don, who had just entered the room with Joe, looked as white as a sheet. *She must not have shown him the guest list,* Methos thought. *Don must have assumed that tonight’s ‘small, intimate’ gathering meant she was inviting a bunch of Joe's old poker buddies from his and Don’s Academy days, not the Watcher top brass. He’d never have allowed it, if he’d known. God, what a mess!*

The moment stretched on and on, Joe looking more uncomfortable, Don more pale, and Christine more hurt with every passing second. *I should step forward, say something,* Methos thought, panicked. *But she probably didn't tell Joe she was inviting me either, and seeing me will just make everything worse. Joe, Joe. I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this…*

He didn’t deserve any of it. Methos had kept careful track of the news from Seacouver all fall, reading the reports with a shock so intense it almost allowed him luxury of disbelief. Never, in his wildest dreams, had Methos ever suspected that it was Joe’s own brother-in-law who was responsible for the Immortal murders. *Oh, Joe,* he thought now, watching his former one-night-stand anxiously shuffle his feet as the silence continued on. *I wanted to call you so many times, wanted to try to explain, but it was impossible. From the moment you filed your first report on Horton the Watchers had you under house arrest. There was no way I could have talked to you privately, even if I hadn’t known you would hang up the moment you heard my name. And what would I have said? Would I have told you the truth, apologized for the disaster my sending MacLeod to Juniper Street caused? No. I can’t risk letting you know I was involved. It is now more dangerous than ever to be an Immortal among Watchers, and it will stay that way even after the last Hunter is rooted out from our ranks. Paranoia will contaminate even the best of us for years. Besides, I am just enough of a hypocrite to be truly pleased by the way things turned out. Horton had to be stopped, and you are the only Watcher I’ve ever met with the strength of character to see that it happened. I’m sorry, Joe, but if I had it to do over again, I would probably act in exactly the same way. Forgive me…* 

The unnatural lull stretched on and on, uncomfortable rustlings beginning to replace the silence. Methos was in agony, wanting to step forward, knowing he could not, when Jacque Vemas coughed, straightened his tie, and approached Joe. "Dawson," he said, cordially enough. "I wasn't expecting to see you until our…more formal gathering tomorrow. I trust you had a pleasant flight?"

He held out his hand. Joe's relief was visible. "Pleasant enough," he said, voice quivering ever so slightly as he shook hands. "No, I wasn't expecting to see you either. When Don and Christine met me at the airport this afternoon, Christine told me this was going to be a small party, with just a few friends…" He stopped, steadied himself, and pasted on a bright smile. "How is Mrs. Vemas and the kids? Last I heard, you had two girls in college."

"That's correct. My eldest is graduating this May." Vemas cleared his throat and turned behind him. "Dawson, I don't think you've met our new Vice President of European Operations. I'd like to introduce you..."

And the buzz of conversation started up again, most of the Watchers following Vemas’s lead and moving forward to say hello. The atmosphere remained strained, but it was nothing compared to the silence of a few moments before. Eventually, enough people had surged to Joe's side to hide the Watcher from view. Methos caught one glance of Don's frightened-but-relieved expression and Christine's puzzled happiness before the crowd obscured them entirely. Silently, Methos thanked Vemas; up until that moment he hadn't had much reason to respect the man, but now Methos would bless him forever for breaking the stalemate. For his own part, Methos stood rooted to the floor for a long moment—and then he went to a servant and requested his coat.

With a bit of luck, he could just quietly slip away.

***

Joe had been sweating and scanning the crowd for nearly fifteen minutes now. He told himself that he was just looking for a friendly face, and that was true--God knew they were rare enough in this crowd. But Joe wasn’t looking for just any face. He was looking for one in particular. And when he pushed his way out of the ballroom and into Christine and Don’s grand front hall, suddenly he found it.

Found it…or rather he found the body the face belonged to, accepting a long black trench coat from the uniformed maid by the door. *Oh, shit.* There was no way Joe could reach Adam before he left, no way he could shout to him without causing a scene. All Joe could do was put his head down and shoulder his way through the crowd, praying that he didn’t step on too many important toes. By the time he reached the end of the hall, the ornate front door was just closing. He ignored the stunned looks on the servant’s faces, wrenched the door open, and followed.

Cool air brushed over his face the second he was outside, a relief in more ways than one. *God, what a nightmare! It’s bad enough that I’m going to be tried for treason tomorrow afternoon. Having to smile and drink champagne with my future jury is just too much. Christine, I’m sure you didn’t mean for things to turn out this way. But the next time you tell me you’ve planned a surprise party in my honor I’m going to leave the country, or throttle you outright if there’s no other choice. Don would forgive me eventually, I know he would.* Joe stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, looking wildly around. There was a lovely gibbous moon hanging in the dark sky overhead. It cast just enough light for Joe to see the tall figure he was searching for, walking down the driveway about twenty feet ahead. Joe limped painfully for several feet before he gave up and shouted. “Adam!”

The figure hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. Joe thought he saw the strong shoulders hunch inward and the proud head duck down before he hurried on. “Adam!” Joe called again, anxiety making his voice slightly shrill. “Please stop walking. I can’t keep up with you. I’ve been on my legs all day, and I have to talk to you. Please.”

He knew Adam heard him, because this time he stopped, even if he didn’t turn around. Joe though he heard him say something, a soft babble that was more whisper than actual words. Joe frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said, I didn’t think you’d want to see me.” At last, Adam turned around, facing Joe full on. “I wanted to get away before you did.”

The moonlight illuminated half of Adam’s face, caressing the angular plane of one pale cheek. Joe felt his breath catch. There was no question about it. Adam Pierson in the moonlight was the most beautiful thing Joe had ever seen. “Fuck, kid,” Joe breathed. “How on earth could you think that when the truth is that you were the only damn person in that entire house I *did* want to see?”

Adam’s lower lip twisted into a tiny, half-formed smile. Joe didn’t need the illumination of daylight to know that the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I believe you were the one who pointed out that the word ‘want’ had absolutely nothing to do with our relationship,” he said. “Joe, I know why you’re here.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Adam nodded. “I know you’re in Paris to face the Tribunal. You need to get some rest, keep your focus. The last thing you need right now is an ugly confrontation with a former one-night stand.” He turned and started walking away.

Joe hurried after him, trying to ignore the screaming of his tired hips and thighs. “Is that all you think you were?” he asked, left absolutely aghast by the bitterness he’d heard in the other man’s voice. “God, Adam. I thought you knew…thought you understood…” Adam ignored him, continuing on his way. Joe stopped in his tracks, too exhausted to follow, too tired to do anything but make one final plea. “It doesn’t have to be ugly,” he called out helplessly.

That stopped him. Adam actually paused, though he still kept his body resolutely facing away. “No. Maybe it doesn’t,” he said at last. “But it’s going to take a lot more energy than I have at the moment to make sure that it doesn’t turn out that way. I wasn’t expecting to find you here tonight, Joe. Neither Don nor Christine told me you were in town. Even if one of them had…well, seeing you is not as easy I would have hoped. I really think it’s best if I just leave. Maybe tomorrow…”

Joe shook his head helplessly. “It can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said. “Adam, I have to know…”

“Have to know what?” Adam interrupted angrily, glaring at Joe over his shoulder. “Joe, it’s been more than five years since we last saw each other at Brian Johnson’s poker party. If you could wait all that time to get in touch, I don’t think there’s anything you ‘have to know’ now that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.” Joe stared, speechless. Adam sighed. “Look, call me after the Tribunal,” he said. “I know you’ll get off with a reduction in rank at most. The Council would be insane to do anything else. If you still want to talk to me after the verdict, fine. I’ll be here. But don’t force me to do anything tonight. I can’t…just let me go, Joe. It will end up being much better for both of us if you do. All right?”

Joe shook his head sorrowfully. “I wish I could, kid,” he said. “But I can’t. There really is something I have to know tonight.”

“Oh, yes?” Adam snapped. Joe took a step back from the resentment he heard. “And just what is that, Joe?”

“I need to know where you found the fifth Chronicle of Darius.”

***

In the heavy silence that followed Joe’s statement, the entire universe seemed to shrink, becoming a tiny place that included only Methos and the man standing behind his shoulder, gravel crunching under his feet as he anxiously shifted his weight. The sounds of the party still continued in the distance, but Methos couldn’t say he was truly hearing them. The music and chatter now seemed like they belonged to another world. *He knows.* Methos tried to speak, found he had no voice, took a deep breath and tried again. “How the hell did you find out about that?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Joe said. “Didn’t you know? Duncan MacLeod brought the Chronicle to Juniper Street for me to appraise. I couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten it, or even why he’d bring it to me, given that there’s at least one good used bookstore on every block in that part of Seacouver. But then I saw the bookstore’s address written inside the front cover.” Methos nodded slowly; of course, Joe would have discovered that cryptic message. Methos had just never expected Joe to suspect that anyone but Darius had written it. “I didn’t understand why the handwriting looked so familiar at first,” Joe continued. “But I eventually I got it, before MacLeod even left the store. Hell. The fact that I *did* get it was the whole reason why I followed him out into the alley in the first place. The reason I told him who I was. The reason why I didn’t just let him walk away.” Joe took a deep breath. “It was your handwriting, Adam. I know you were the one who put it there.”

Methos let his head fall back. Above him the moon hung, great and silver and lovely, lopsidedly looking down at his foolish mistakes with the same tolerant serenity with which she’d watched him for the last five thousand years. “My handwriting,” he said softly, more to himself than to Joe. “I never even thought about disguising it. It never occurred to me you would recognize it. Not after all these years.”

“Yeah. I guess I know why you would think that.” Joe’s voice was husky; he took another few steps forward, effectively closing the distance between them. Methos could feel his presence, solid and warm, just behind his right elbow. “But the truth is, you were damn important to me, kid. Of course I remembered what your writing looked like.”

Methos closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists inside his coat sleeves. No, he was not going to turn around, was not going to see whatever expression Joe was currently wearing. He couldn’t face it, not yet. “Who else knows?”

“No one. I didn’t want to tell anybody else—the Council or anyone—until I knew the whole story myself.” Methos nodded, thinking how like the man he remembered that statement was. The Joe Dawson Methos had worked with would never betray a friend…at least not until he knew for sure that the friend’s actions warranted betraying. Apparently some things didn’t change over time. Joe placed a tentative hand on his elbow. “I really think we need to talk, Adam.”

“Yes. Yes, I think we do.” Methos let his head hang for another moment, then he finally lifted it and faced Joe, a pathetically twisted smile on his lips. He knew it was pathetic. There was nothing he could do to change it. “My place or yours?”

It was a feeble joke, painfully reminding them both of the history they shared. Joe snorted anyway. “Well, seeing as I’m staying in Christine’s fluffiest guest bedroom, I think it had better be yours,” he said, gesturing back at the house. “God only knows what she’ll do if we go back in there. I think that woman’s capable of organizing a conga line. With me at the head.”

The image of Christine gripping Joe’s hips as the two of them led a spirited conga line filled with Watcher elite was too much for him. Against his will, Methos found himself laughing softly. “You could well be right,” he said. “Things do have a way of getting out of hand where Christine’s parties are concerned.”

“Tell me about it,” Joe said ruefully. “Look, I need to get my coat, and leave a message for Don. I’ll be ready in five minutes. All right?”

“All right.” Methos nodded, surrendering to the inevitable. “I’ll get my car.”

***

By mutual unspoken agreement, neither man said anything until they had reached Methos’s building. Methos thought he saw Joe look at the rickety Volvo with an expression that was one part wonder and two parts intense personal pain when Methos pulled up, but he kept silent, a courtesy Methos appreciated. His mind was going a mile a minute as he navigated the car through the dark Parisian streets, calculating, making plans, concocting possible cover stories. When they at last reached the flat, Joe took two steps inside and froze. “Holy shit!”

“Does that mean you like the place?” Methos asked, locking the front door behind them. Joe was standing in the entryway open-mouthed, eyes roaming from the view of the Eiffel Tower sparkling outside the window to the myriad works of sculpture placed around the room. Methos hid a groan. He’d been so panicked about Joe’s discovery of his handwriting in the Chronicle that he hadn’t thought what effect his flat might have. *Sloppy, old man, sloppy!* he silently chastised himself. *You know what Joe expected: the typical French grad student’s walk up, one bedroom with a hot plate and books crammed onto every horizontal surface. Time to get your lies in order.* “I haven’t lived here for very long.”

“It’s certainly…not how I pictured you living.” Joe limped forward, reaching out to touch one of Methos’s favorite pieces, a sculpture of a human face done in stainless steel. Joe snatched his hand back before his fingerprints could mar the shiny metallic surface. “I had no idea you were into sculpture, Adam.”

“There are lots of things you don’t know about me, Joe.”

It was the simple truth, but the words came out much more harshly than Methos had intended. Joe looked stricken. Methos forced himself to be calm. “I’ve been collecting for years,” he said, opening the entryway closet and placing his coat with great care upon a hanger, making sure that his sword and other assorted weaponry didn’t make any give away clinking sounds. “However, most of this isn’t mine.”

“You…you live with someone?” Joe looked horrified. “Adam, I didn’t even stop to wonder if you might have a…a roommate. I can go if it’s going to be a problem. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

Methos cursed himself, knowing instantly what Joe was thinking. It made perfect sense, after all. Joe knew what Watcher researchers made. There was no way Adam Pierson could ever afford a place like this. But Adam Pierson was also a handsome, well-educated young gay man, the kind that could easily attract a wealthy older lover. Joe thought he was being “kept”. “Relax, Joe,” Methos said. “All I meant was that most of these pieces belonged to my great uncle Ben. He left me his collection when he died. He left me the apartment building too, which is a very good thing. I could never afford a place this big on my own. Not the way Paris rents keep rising.” There. That was a good lie. Now to make sure that Joe believed it.

Joe looked relieved. *Almost too relieved,* Methos thought. *Joe, is it really possible you still care who I live with, what I do? If only…* “I didn’t know you had any family in Paris,” Joe said, clearly trying to cover the awkward moment. “Didn’t you say your parents were settled in London before they passed away?”

“Yes, well. Great Uncle Ben was a notable eccentric, always moving around. And as I said, there are lots of things about me you don’t know.” Methos finished hanging up his coat. He closed the closet door with a soft thump. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Joe,” he said softly. “Nor a girlfriend nor a platonic roommate of any kind. And even if I did, I still couldn’t let you go. As you said, we have to talk.”

He met Joe’s eyes, searching for—what? Some sign of caring, some acknowledgment that the last seven years didn’t matter as much as Methos had assumed they had? He didn’t find it. Joe held his gaze for one long moment, then shuffled his feet and looked away. “We do,” he said gruffly. “Is there a place we can sit?”

“Right this way.”

A bit ashamed that he hadn’t thought to get Joe off his feet before, Methos led him through the apartment. He saw Joe sneak a look at the large platform bed visible through the arch to one side, then resolutely focus his eyes ahead as Methos opened the door to his office. Joe looked startled, then awed, and then he limped into the room as reverently as if he was walking into a museum, which Methos supposed was a fairly good a description of his work space. The office was a living testament to the history of the written word, crammed with every form of writing ever known to man. Everything from medieval illuminated manuscripts to 1920’s pulp paperbacks to modern computer printouts were spread out over the various tables. Joe hobbled over to an ancient papyrus scroll sitting inside a protective case, whistling softly as he took a good long look at the hieroglyphics visible through the glass. “Quite the collection,” he said. “Is this all for the Methos project?”

“Mostly,” Methos confirmed, entering the room behind Joe. “Some of it’s for a few private projects of my own. The Watcher librarians and curators are very good about letting me borrow what I need.”

“I guess I should have known you’d be cleared to handle the most precious artifacts in the vault by now,” Joe said, sounding both proud and wistful. “Is that where you found the Fifth Chronicle of Darius, mislabeled in the Watcher Vault? I was so sure it had been lost.”

So here it was. Methos sat down on the corner of his desk, forcing his body to take a relaxed pose. “It had been lost,” he said evenly. “That Chronicle didn’t come from the Library, Joe.”

“No?”

“No. It was mine. I found it in Nepal.”

Methos watched while this bit of information sunk in, privately marveling to himself that he was actually telling the truth. It wasn’t like his time in the car had gone to waste. His survivor’s mind had been ticking over frantically, and Methos could have chosen from a dozen plausible stories that would have explained his involvement. The problem was, now that the moment was actually at hand, Methos found he couldn’t use any of them. He couldn’t lie to Joe, not knowing the heartache his clever little scheme had caused. And, if he looked deep enough inside, he found he didn’t really want to. It was stupid, and quite possibly suicidal. He had to do it anyway. “*You* found the Chronicle? In Nepal?” Joe repeated blankly. “Then how the hell did Darius get his hands on it?”

Methos swallowed. This was the part he’d been dreading. “I gave it to him.”

“You…what?” Joe blinked, clearly unable to believe what he was hearing. “You gave one of our Chronicles to an Immortal?”

“Yes, Joe. That’s exactly what I did.”

There was a long pause. “Adam,” Joe said carefully after several seconds, when the quiet had gotten too intense to bear. “You do know that doing such a thing is the worst possible betrayal of our Oath. Letting an Immortal see one of the Chronicles…it’s revealing all that we are, giving them a direct line to everything we’ve kept secret since Gilgamesh. God, I have to face a Tribunal for just *telling* MacLeod the truth about us, and he already had a Chronicle in his hand! If the Council knew you were the one who gave it to Darius in the first place, you would be lucky to escape with your life. Tell me that you understand that, please.” Again, Methos nodded, his face impassive. “Then why on earth did you do it?”

“Darius and I were friends.”

It was too much for Joe. The Watcher collapsed heavily onto one of Methos’s many desk chairs, looking as if he just couldn’t stand to stay upright another moment. Methos longed to reach out and rub his shoulders, but he couldn’t. Not now. Possibly not ever. “Friends,” Joe repeated. “*Friends*?”

“Good friends,” Methos clarified. Joe just shot him a Look. “Joe, really, it’s not as horrible as it sounds. After all, you were the one who told me years ago that Immortals were real people, and that it was possible to start thinking of the good ones as family. Darius was like that.” Joe made a disbelieving sound. “If it helps, I didn’t really break my oath, not really,” Methos continued. “Darius knew all about the Watchers centuries before he met me. He recognized the symbol I wore the first time we met. I never told him anything about us that he didn’t already know.”

Which was absolutely true. Joe just didn’t have to know that their first meeting had taken place in the tenth century instead of the twentieth, or that Methos had been wearing a pendant instead of a tattoo. Joe looked like he’d had more than enough truth to cope with for the moment, anyway. “How long, Adam?” he asked gruffly.

“How long what? How long were we friends?” Joe nodded. Methos hesitated. “I’d rather not answer that exactly, Joe. Let’s just say that it was quite a while. Long enough for Darius to trust me a great deal, and for me to trust him in return.” Methos took a deep breath. “Darius knew I was the only one who could help when his friends started disappearing.”

“Disappearing?” Joe’s head snapped upright. “Are you talking about the Immortals James Horton killed?”

“Yes,” Methos nodded. “Darius knew something strange was going on. He was very well connected in Immortal circles, enough to know that the missing Immortals weren’t losing challenges or changing identities in the usual way. He asked me to look them up in the Library. I agreed.”

“You agreed?”

“I did,” Methos answered, watching Joe carefully to see how he accepted this latest sin. *Yes, that’s right, Joe. I didn’t just share one Chronicle with an Immortal—I actually agreed to do research on that Immortal’s behalf, effectively placing the whole Library at his disposal. Will you understand, or will this be too much?* Joe went a little paler, but other than that there was no reaction. *He’s in overload,* Methos thought. *Hold on Joe: all you have to do is hang in just a little longer. Then everything will be explained…at least everything I can explain. Try to understand...* “You’ve been following the Council investigations, Joe. You already know what I discovered. More Immortals died in 1993 then had died in the last decade, and all the final reports had been faked. When I went to the church to tell Darius what I’d discovered, and found he’d been beheaded on holy ground—”

“Hold on.” Joe looked horrified. “You were there? You saw Darius’s body?”

“Yes. Duncan MacLeod wasn't the first person to discover Darius’s body, Joe. I was.”

“Oh, Adam.” Joe leaned forward in his chair, sincere pain and sorrow in his eyes. “What a horrible thing. I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a friend. ”

*And there’s Joe Dawson in a nutshell,* Methos thought. *He’s just learned that I’m the worst kind of traitor, and he himself is about to face the Tribunal for a similar crime, and yet he can still find time to express sympathy with me for witnessing the death of a friend. If I ever wondered why I fell in love with him, here’s my answer.* “It wasn’t easy,” Methos said quietly. “But the worst part was seeing with my own eyes that the murder had taken place on Holy Ground. Seeing that proved that Darius had been killed by mortals, and the tampered records told me just who those mortals were. Watchers, Joe. One of our own had killed...” Methos’s voice faltered, but Joe didn’t complain. He just nodded, pained understanding written all over his face. Of course he understood, completely comprehended the horror of that moment when Methos had realized the truth. Who better? “I had to do something, and I didn’t have a lot of time,” Methos continued. “I knew MacLeod would be coming soon. Darius had told me he would visit when I gave him the Chronicle the night before. I found the Chronicle where Darius had last put it down and I wrote your address inside, hoping that MacLeod would find it, recognize the zip code, and eventually find you. I hoped the two of you could work together.” Methos swallowed. “Make things right.”

“Make things right.” Joe’s eyes closed. For a moment Methos saw how truly worn out the other man was, how tired in both body in mind. “Oh, kid. If only you knew...” He opened his eyes again, looking at Methos curiously. “Adam, there’s just one thing I don’t understand. Why go through such an elaborate ruse to send MacLeod to me? Why not just go and tell the Council what you knew?”

“Because I was bloody terrified, that’s why!” Methos launched himself off the desk and started pacing anxiously back and forth across the room. “Joe, I’m not an idiot. I knew my friendship with Darius was tantamount to high treason. How was I supposed to explain being the one to discover his body?” Joe nodded, looking pained. Methos slowed his pacing. “But there was more to it than just that,” he said. “Remember, I had no idea who was perpetrating these murders, how far up in the organization the guilty party might be. For all I knew, Jacque Vemas could have wielded the ax himself. I couldn’t trust the Council. I couldn’t even trust my coworkers or my friends in the Library.” Methos stopped in front of the desk and sat back down, shrugging his shoulders in a mute gesture of apology. “The only person I could think of to trust was you.”

For reasons Methos couldn’t begin to fathom, this declaration had more effect on Joe than anything else he’d said. “Me?” Joe said, voice clearly strained. “You trusted me? After all those years, and the way I treated you? You still trusted me to do the right thing?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Joe asked bluntly. “Adam, you had no way to know what I was, who I had become. I could just as easily have been part of the conspiracy as anybody else. Why have such faith in me?”

“It’s not that hard to understand, Joe.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. You were the only one that I trusted because you were the only one that I loved.”

*Damn,* Methos thought during the terrible long silence that followed this declaration. *Now I know why I don’t make a habit of telling the truth. It’s addictive. Impossible to stop, once you’ve gotten started…* “Loved?” Joe asked, a strange quaver in his voice. “Oh no, Adam, no. You can’t, not anymore. It’s been so long...”

“Joe, I never stopped.”

In the even longer silence that followed, Methos thought he could hear every car driving down the street outside, thought he could even hear the sound of Joe’s heartbeat, low and steady and strong. Then Joe started to laugh. It was a terrible sound, with an edge of self-hatred that Methos would have thought Joe was incapable of. Alarmed, Methos jumped off the desk and crossed the floor to Joe’s side. “Joe?”

“I’m all right, kid. I really am. I’m just…amused.” Joe looked thoughtful. “Well, no, amused isn’t really the word. Knocked silly by the irony is more like it. I finally get to hear the words I’ve been dreaming about hearing for the last seven years…only to find out that they are completely undeserved. You loved me, sent MacLeod to me, all because I had your trust. And it turns out that I’m the last person on earth who deserves it.”

Methos frowned, severely unnerved. “The last person who deservers it?’” he repeated. “Joe, I don’t understand…”

“No. No, you wouldn’t.” Joe sighed and got to his feet. His slow, painful movements clearly showed what kind of day he’d had. “And you never will, because I can’t tell you what really happened, the night James Horton was stabbed. I never will be able to. But I *can* tell you this. You’ve changed everything for me, helped me make up my mind about something I should have decided long ago. And for that, I thank you.” Joe’s voice took on a deeply tender tone. “I do thank you, Adam. I want you to know I’ll always be grateful.” He looked behind him and started patting down his pockets in search of his wallet and keys, the automatic gestures of a man about to take his leave. “I have to go now. There’s something I need to do.”

“Go?” Methos said blankly. “Joe, what the…”

“No. No questions, Adam.” Joe smiled sadly. “I may not be what you think I am, but there are still some things you can trust me about, and this is one of them. You are better off not knowing. Don’t worry about driving me back to Don and Christine’s; I’m not going back there. I’ll catch a cab at the corner.” He started walking toward the door.

Methos followed him, dashing ahead to block his path. “Joe,” he said desperately. “If you think I’m just going to let you leave like this…”

“I don’t think, Adam. I know. I know you’re going to let me leave without any fuss. Because I’m the one that’s asking you to do it, and you still lo… you still care for me enough to do what I ask without demanding explanations when the chips are down. I know you do, because I still do, enough to do the exact same thing if our positions were reversed. Now stand aside.”

Horribly, terribly, Methos found himself stepping back. Joe opened the door and hesitated, his hand lingering on the knob—then he sighed and pulled Methos’s face to his, kissing him on the lips. Methos was so startled that he didn’t have time to speak, didn’t have time to do anything but sink into the incredible soft warmth of Joe’s knowing mouth. *Better,* Methos thought, dazed. *He’s actually gotten better at this during the last seven years, something I would have warranted was flatly impossible. Oh, Joe. What we’ve missed…what we could have had…* Methos heard himself moan softly, arching his body to get more of the shorter man’s warmth against him. Joe’s hand caressed his cheek as he broke away. “If I don’t show up at the Tribunal tomorrow, be sure to say goodbye to Don for me,” he said softly. And then he was gone.

Methos stared after him, still reeling from the incredible sweetness of the kiss. He heard Joe’s cane lightly thump down his front steps, and pushed his way through the doorframe in time to see Joe reach the ground and turn resolutely up the sidewalk. Methos watched Joe all the way to the corner, watched him turn onto the main street. And then he slid into action.

It was really very simple. Adam Pierson probably would have let Joe go without asking questions; Joe’s regard meant a lot to young Adam, and he would have done anything to keep his trust. But Methos wasn't Adam, at least not entirely, and he had five thousand years of suspicion and treachery to fall back upon. Methos opened the closet door. He made sure that his coat held a loaded handgun in addition to its usual compliment of daggers and swords before he slipped it on, feeling the carefully balanced weight settle securely around his body. Then he stepped out the front door and locked it behind him.

He was going to get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing he did.

 

***

Every action has a consequence, every deed its day of judgment. In the years that Joe Dawson had Watched Duncan MacLeod, he had seen this simple universal law in operation time and time again. Every man and woman MacLeod had ever crossed paths with eventually resurfaced to balance the books, for good or ill. It seemed that a man’s sins, be they intentional or accidental, always caught up with him in the end. There was no escape. 

No escape...but sometimes, if a man is truly a man, he can stop running from his sins and turn around to face them, instead. Joe Dawson left Adam Pierson’s apartment knowing that something that had been stirring inside him for months had suddenly come to life, shaped by Adam’s quiet insistence that Joe was still a man who could be trusted. Joe walked up the street, found a public phone booth, and dialed a number he’d known for years, although he’d never imagined he’d actually use it. “MacLeod, this is Dawson,” he said when the Highlander’s answering machine picked up. “I know where Horton is. He’s staying in a boat moored at the Belle Noche Marina. I’m going to go there now.” Joe paused for a moment, letting the machine record the sound of his breathing and the cars passing by. Then: “Listen. If I don’t see you again, I want you to know that it’s been an honor Watching you all these years. I was looking forward to having the chance to become your friend.” He hung up. 

The next thing Joe did was flag down a cab. The driver rolled his eyes when Joe gave him the address of Shakespeare & Co., presumably wondering what this particular insane American wanted with a bookstore this late in the evening, but he did as Joe asked. When they reached the store, Joe asked the driver to wait, took the key Don always left tucked under the mat, and let himself in. It took Joe less than five minutes to open the store’s safe—the code was the date of the Battle of Hastings, Don was nothing if not predictable—and take the small pistol he found there. Joe loaded the gun with the ammo he found in the researcher’s bottom desk drawer, tucked it under his coat, and relocked the store. The driver raised his eyebrows when Joe shoved a fistful of francs in his face, but he took them. “Belle Noche Marina. On the double.”

The Belle Noche was not the upper class, country-club-on-water sort of establishment James Horton had patronized in Seacouver. It was decidedly seedy, a handful of decaying docks crammed between another handful of equally decaying warehouses. There was a gate and a guardhouse barring the entrance from the street, indicating that perhaps, once upon a time, the marina had catered to a more exclusive clientele. If so, its glory days were long gone. As the cab drove off and Joe walked toward the guardhouse, he couldn’t help but think that the marina would be the ideal place for an Immortal battle. You could easily cut off a man’s head here and never be seen… 

The thought did not exactly fill Joe with confidence. 

But his mind was made up. He’d been lying, caught up in his own guilt and deceptions, ever since he first took James to the hospital, and his lies had had disastrous consequences. It was time to end this, once and for all. Joe touched the gun for reassurance and started limping toward the docks. He had just passed the gatehouse when two tall, burly figures stepped out of the shadows. “Where do you think you’re going?” one demanded.

Joe plastered his best stupid look on his face and held up his hands, trying to seem as harmless as possible while he looked the two men over. Both were taller than him, heavier than him, and walked in that bluntly confrontational way that had “hired muscle” written all over it. The ripped jeans, dark leather jacket, and bright red bandana the speaker wore around his forehead simply confirmed Joe’s impression. “Easy fellas,” Joe said. “I’m just looking for someone, that’s all.”

The second man, dressed identically to the first with the exception of the bandana, took a few steps closer. Light reflected menacingly off something metallic in his arms, and Joe suddenly realized that both men were carrying guns. And not just any guns, either. Machine guns... “That right?” the second man said.

“That’s right.” Joe nodded, very carefully keeping his hands where both men could see them. “Would either of you two gentleman know where I could find James Horton?”

The two men exchanged glances. Joe felt his heartbeat speed up. “I don’t think Mr. Horton is expecting any visitors tonight,” the first one said. “Mind telling us what you want with our boss?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“Uh-huh. Just talk.” Bandana-wearer nodded at his companion, who set his machine gun on the pavement. He moved toward Joe, quickly patting down the outside of Joe’s sport coat. Joe groaned when he found and extracted Don’s handgun. “Right,” the first man said, smirking. “I don’t think Mr. Horton generally likes his conversational partners to be armed. Care to try again?”

Damn. The situation was rapidly going from bad to worse. Why hadn’t he stopped to think that James would be paranoid enough to hire bodyguards? “Look, I know this looks bad,” he said, watching as Don’s pistol quickly disappeared into the second gunman’s jacket before he picked up his own, much more menacing, weapon. “But I really need to see James. Trust me. He’ll be angry if you don’t let me see him.”

“Oh yeah?” Bandana-wearer raised an eyebrow. “And just why would Mr. Horton want to see you?”

“Easy. I’m…family.” Joe couldn’t help but give that last word a bitter twist. The gunmen remained stock still, unimpressed. Joe sagged. “Look, I know James has a phone on that damn boat of his,” he said. “Give him a call and find out. Tell him Joe’s here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that,” the first guard said. “Keep an eye on him,” he said severely to his companion. 

“Who, me? Not planning on moving a muscle,” Joe answered. Bandana-wearer disappeared into the gate house. Joe saw his silhouette lift a phone to his ear through the darkened glass. Time passed. Joe tried, unsuccessfully, to engage the second guard in conversation: “So. You lived in Paris long?” but when the man merely growled in answer he subsided. At long last Bandana-wearer emerged, smiling an ugly smile that Joe distrusted at once. He nodded at Joe and waved a gun towards the closest dock. “This way.”

Joe peered into the darkness. He knew what James’s yacht looked like, and none of the boats moored along this particular dock were it. “James agreed to see me?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Nah.” The ugly smile got even uglier. “He told me to shoot you and dispose of your body. I just figured it would be easier to dump you in the river if you’d already walked most of the way yourself.” Bandana-wearer cocked his head at his partner. “I guess ‘family’ just don’t mean what it used to.”

“It’s a cryin’ shame,” agreed the second man. He leveled the barrel of his gun at Joe’s chest. “Come on. Get moving.”

Joe raised his hands even higher, backing slowly toward a pile of metal barrels stacked along one edge of the dock. “Listen, it’s not too late to talk about this…”

But it was too late. Joe watched the expression on the gunman’s face shift from cold amusement to the dead, hollow look of a man about to pull the trigger, and knew that his time had finally run out. The only reason he wasn’t already dead was that the bodyguards wanted to save themselves as much work as possible, and that excuse wouldn’t hold for much longer. If Joe refused to walk to the river under his own power, well, it wouldn’t be *that* much harder to carry his body. After all, there were two of them, and it wasn’t as if they had anything better to do. Joe took another few steps back, but he knew it was pointless. There was nowhere for him to run. He closed his eyes, wishing that he’d found time to do more than just kiss Adam goodbye, then resolutely opened them again. After all, he’d lived this long, survived a horrible war and learned Immortal beings walked the earth. He might as well keep his eyes open now, even if the only thing he had left to see was his own death. Joe looked his killer straight in the face, hoping that his final expression would haunt the man for decades to come… 

…and saw Adam Pierson calmly step out from behind the warehouse to the left. His arm was steady and his face impassive as he took aim. The bullet went straight into the back of the gunman’s head. 

The sound of the gunshot died away. The guard brought a hand up to his head, pulled it away and stared at the blood covering his fingers before he slowly crumpled to the pavement. Joe didn’t have time to marvel—where the hell had Adam learned to shoot like that?—because the kid was already running toward him, launching himself off the dock and catching Joe in a flying tackle just as the second gunman opened fire. As if in slow motion, Joe saw a bullet nick the edge of Adam’s arm, tearing away a square of fabric and a healthy chunk of bloody flesh. Then they both collapsed in safety behind the barrels. Adam's gun, knocked out of his hand by the impact, skittered over the ground and came to a stop a few feet away. “Adam?” Joe gasped, the wind knocked out of him by the fall. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You didn’t think I was just going to let you go, did you? After a good-bye kiss like that?” Adam said breathlessly. “I followed your cab to Shakespeare& Co., watched through the window when you took the gun out of Don’s safe. I figured you might need some help. No, don’t ask,” he said quickly, seeing Joe was about to speak. “There will be plenty of time for questions later. Right now I’ve got to take care of our other friend.”

Adam rolled off of Joe’s body and reached for his gun, only to discover that he couldn’t make his hand close around it. He frowned down at his fingers, wearing a perplexed expression that would have been incredibly endearing at any other time. Joe could have sworn the kid hadn’t known he’d been shot until that very moment. “Oh. Dear.”

Another barrage of gun fire hit the barrels. “’Oh dear,’ indeed,” Joe muttered. He hurriedly yanked his shirt out off his pants and tore a strip from the hem. “Here. Wrap this around your arm. And give me that gun. Unless you’re just as good a shot with your left hand?”

“Not quite,” Adam admitted with a lopsided grin. “But I’d be willing to give it a try.” The sounds of machine gun fire abruptly ceased, replaced by something a thousand times more terrifying: footsteps, approaching at a run. Joe yanked the gun from the kid’s unresisting hand, knowing that if he didn’t do something that very second he and Adam would be as helpless as fish in a barrel. He got to his feet, aimed at the rapidly approaching gunman over the top of the barricade, and fired twice. 

The second shot was unnecessary. The first one went straight through Bandana-wearer’s heart. Joe looked at the gun with great distaste before thumbing on the safety and tucking the weapon into his pants. It looked like he was going to be the one haunted by the gunman’s final expression, not the other way around. Christ! Joe had started this evening knowing that it would end in death—otherwise he never would have gone to the bookshop to steal Don’s pistol—but it was still a shock. *And to think, there was once a time when I swore that I would never kill again…* Joe looked down at the kid, who was watching him with an indecipherable expression. “Nice aim,” was all he said. 

“Yeah. It’s amazing the useful skills you can pick up during a war,” Joe said bitterly. “Come on. Let’s get you into the light so we can look at that arm.”

Joe grabbed the shoulders of Adam’s coat and half pulled, half dragged the kid out from behind the barrels. There was a streetlight less than fifteen feet away, casting its dirty orange light in a circle on the dingy pavement. “I can walk,” Adam protested, but it quickly became obvious that he could not. The kid’s knees buckled under him when he tried to stand, and his face was ghastly pale. Joe frowned. He knew the bullet had taken a significant chunk of the Adam’s skin. Still, he shouldn’t have lost enough blood to make him dizzy, not this quickly. *Shock,* Joe diagnosed. *Can’t blame him. The kid’s probably never been shot before, let alone taken a life. Oh, Adam. I tried so hard to keep you out of this. And here you are, paying for my mistakes. I told you not to come…* 

He manhandled the kid under the streetlight and knelt at his side, eager to get him out of his coat so he could examine his wounded arm. Adam stopped him. “Wait,” he said shakily, holding the edges of the trench coat closed with his good hand. “You have to tell me something, Joe. I heard you tell that creep that you were here to see James. Does that mean…does that mean James Horton is still alive?”

Joe froze. “That doesn’t matter now,” he said, trying to pull Adam’s hand away. “You’re hurt, let me look...”

Adam held steady. “It does matter,” he said. “It matters, because you said you didn’t deserve my trust, and if this is what you meant…than I have to know.” He swallowed. “Tell me the truth. Is Horton here?”

There was no help for it. “Yeah, kid. James is here, alive and well. He’s living on a yacht parked somewhere in this maze.” Both men started as they heard the unmistakable sound of a boat engine coming to life. “Or he was, anyway,” Joe amended. “That sounds like his yacht. The gunshots probably convinced him it was time to get out of here.”

“What the hell was he doing in Paris in the first place? 

*Sooner or later, every sin comes home to roost.* “He’s here because Xavier St. Cloud is here. They’ve been killing Immortals together.”

Joe said it as brusquely as he could, not wanting to soften it any way. It worked. Adam looked truly horrified. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “Horton is alive. He’s teamed up with an Immortal to kill other Immortals. And you knew about it? You *knew*?”

“I didn’t know he was still killing,” Joe answered, knowing how ridiculous he sounded, how unbelievable. It was the truth nonetheless. “I didn’t know that until Duncan MacLeod brought me proof, just before I left Seacouver to face the Tribunal. And even then, I kept hoping MacLeod was wrong...but yes, I knew James was still alive.” Joe looked down at the pavement, not wanting to meet the kid’s eyes. “I told you I wasn’t the man you thought I was, Adam.”

The kid started coughing, wrapping his good arm around his chest to grip the wounded one above the elbow. “But your reports…”

“Lied.” Joe said bluntly. “About the important things, at least. I took James to the hospital after MacLeod stabbed him. I should have just left him there to die; it would have been justice, after all. But Lynn was there, and she didn’t understand…she begged me to get him some help…” Adam nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving Joe’s. Joe took a deep breath. “The doctors at the emergency room told me that James wouldn’t survive the night. When I called in the security breach, I told Vemas that James was already dead. I knew the Watcher Council would want to question him immediately if they knew he was alive, and I couldn’t stand the thought of them hauling him off to die in some damn cell. Lynn was already hysterical…she couldn’t handle anything more.” Joe stared out over the marina, weariness filling every bone and muscle. “I wanted her to have the chance to hold her father’s hand while she still could.”

“But Horton didn’t die.” Adam said. His face was growing paler by the minute. 

“No. He surprised everyone and stayed alive.” Joe bit down on his lip. “I should have told the truth then, I know I should. To hell with what it would have done with my career. It would have been better than what happened. Adam, Anton Legris and Jason Talbot were both killed by Horton and Xavier in the last two weeks. Their deaths are on my head. I let Horton live…I even let him go to Canada with nothing more than a promise that he’d have nothing to do with Immortals ever again. I may not have wielded the sword myself, but I got those men killed just the same. It’s all my fault.” Joe stared bleakly into the distance. “I just wanted so badly to believe James’s promise. After all, he was…”

“Family,” Adam finished for him. 

“Yeah. Family.” Joe’s expression hardened. “It’s not a mistake I’m going to make again.”

He stared off into the darkness, where the ship’s engine had been humming steadily for several minutes. “Then don’t make it again,” Adam said. Startled, Joe twisted to stare into Adam’s face. What he saw there told him, incredible and impossible as it was, that the kid had understood Joe’s whole plan. Adam knew why Joe had set off to find his brother-in-law in the middle of the night, Adam knew why he had stopped to pick up the little revolver the dead gunmen had confiscated. He knew that Joe had intended to make sure James never killed again. And he agreed. The empathy and acceptance Joe saw in the kid’s eyes made his heart twist. “Horton’s boat will be leaving at any moment,” Adam continued, wincing as he breathed. “You have to follow him, and end this. For good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Joe said. “But I can’t leave you, Adam. Horton can wait. I’ll track him down another time. Like I said, we’re family. Sooner or later, he’ll get in touch.”

“No. No, he won’t,” Adam said emphatically, struggling to stand. He fell back again the lamppost with a groan, making Joe’s forehead furrow with apprehension. A winged arm should not be causing this much pain. Something was badly wrong. “That thug was right when he said family doesn’t mean what it used to. Horton no longer trusts you, Joe. He ordered his muscle to dump your body in the river, and they would have if we hadn’t killed them before they could. Horton’s done with you, Joe. He’s not going to let you find him again. You’ll never get another chance.”

“Maybe,” Joe said helplessly. “I still can’t leave you. We’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

“Joe, it’s too late for that. The hospital won’t be able to help me now.” Slowly, painfully, Adam opened his coat. The light from the street lamp filtered down, clearly illuminating the surprisingly small hole in his shirt…and the equally surprisingly large stain of blood that had spread throughout the fabric. Adam’s formerly crisp white shirt now looked almost purple under the dim orange light. He gave a tiny shrug. “It seems that our friend had more than one bullet with my name on it.”

“He…you…” Joe reached out to touch the spreading stain, unable to believe his eyes. Adam moaned softly as Joe’s fingers brushed the edges of the hole, coming away sticky with the kid’s hot blood. Horror filled him. Now he knew why Adam was so pale, why he kept coughing and gasping for breath. It wasn’t the emotional shock at all. The second bullet had nicked a lung… “You’re dying.”

“Not…exactly,” Adam answered through gritted teeth. He jerked his head at the gun still tucked in Joe’s waistband. “I don’t have time to explain, Joe. I’ll be all right, I promise you I will. The important thing now is that you stop Horton before he can kill again. Take the gun. You can still catch him.”

Joe shook his head wildly, tears almost blinding his eyes. “No. No. I’m not leaving you.” *All my fault*, he thought. *Adam’s dying, and it’s all my fault. All my fault all my fault all my fault…* 

“Joe! Joe! *I will be all right.*”

The beautiful hazel eyes met Joe’s in an agony of fear and desperation, but it wasn’t the fear of death. Joe knew the way *that* fear looked in a dying man’s eyes, had seen it time and time again in Vietnam. This was the fear of something else entirely. Adam coughed again, bringing a bubble of bright red blood to his lips. He wiped it away from his mouth without ever breaking Joe’s gaze, and suddenly Joe knew. He didn’t know how, but he knew. He didn’t even have to look down to where the horrible bleeding was already starting to slow to confirm it. “Oh my god,” he said. “You really *are* going to be all right, aren’t you.”

It was subtle, but the beautiful head nodded once, only once, before Adam closed his eyes and sank back into the pavement with a squishy thud. Joe spent a moment staring at the body, thinking, wondering. Then he grabbed the gun and ran off as quickly as his missing legs would let him go. 

He had a job to do.

***

The healing didn’t take long. Not for the first time, Methos found himself regretting that his old age and powerful Quickening meant that even fatal wounds healed in a matter of minutes. Sometimes, life wasn’t worth returning to right away. Sometimes it would have been nice to stay away, at least for a little while. Methos inhaled the first breath of life into his newly-healed lungs and sat up, half wondering why he bothered. The world had changed irrevocably while he’d been out. Joe now knew he was Immortal. Why bother to get up when there was a very real chance that his life here was over? 

But he got to his feet anyway, wrapped his black coat around his body in a horribly inadequate attempt to hide his bloodstained clothes, and followed the direction Joe had taken. Which is how it happened that Methos was there, standing in the shadows, when Joe finally caught up with Horton; there when Horton appealed to Joe’s sense of family, and there when Joe planted the bullet in his brother-in-law’s chest. Methos didn’t have the keenest view, since he had to stay far enough away that Duncan MacLeod didn’t sense him (and wasn’t that just like the Highlander, showing up after all the hard work had already been done?). But he was close enough to hear every word that was spoken, especially Joe’s solemn pronouncement that he always cleaned up his own mess. *Mess,* Methos thought sadly. *Is that what I am now, Joe? Am I going to be the next thing on your cleanup list?* 

He should have left then but he stayed long enough to see MacLeod take the gun from Joe and toss it in the river, then put Joe in a cab and walk off to wherever it was the Highlander had come from in first place. Only then did Methos leave too, reclaiming his Volvo from the front of the marina and driving off into the night. Going home was unthinkable. If he went to his apartment, there was no way to guarantee that he wouldn’t be woken up by a Watcher security squad. Still, when Methos found that the Volvo had driven to his building more or less without any conscious direction from him, he parked the car and dragged his tired body inside. He started to lock the front door behind him, then changed his mind and left it unlocked and slightly ajar as well. There was no point in making the Watchers break down the door. Besides, there was just a chance that leaving it open might prove useful. Methos showered, donned boxers and bathrobe, and collapsed onto the floor by the bed in his favorite “the world is too much” stance: half-sprawled on the rug at the foot of the bed with his headphones on, listening to the current artist that most talked to his soul. He kept the volume low and half an ear out for the sound of the door creaking open. It was a long shot, but you never knew… 

Just about an hour before dawn, it happened. “Adam?”

Sometimes, just sometimes, long shots do pay off. Methos took the headphones from his head and called softly into the anti-room. “It’s all right, Joe, I’m awake. Come on in.”

He heard his front door swing closed, then two feet and a cane thump heavily across his floor. A moment later Joe’s silhouette, barely distinguishable from the rest of the shadows in the flat, appeared in his archway. “I started to knock, but the door was unlocked,” Joe said. His voice was hardly louder than the ever-present refrigerator hum. “It just swung open when I touched it.”

Methos nodded. The gesture was completely wasted, since there was no way Joe could have seen it in the dark, but he did it anyway. “I was hoping you might decide to drop by.”

“So you left the door for me?”

“I didn’t want you to get all the way to the doorstep and then decide to turn around.”

“I wouldn’t have…” Joe started, then stopped. “Huh. Maybe I would have. I guess I should be grateful that you left the door the way you did. This way I didn’t have to make a decision. I just barged right in, to make sure you were all right.” He paused. “*Are* you all right?”

Methos closed his eyes. There was no point in lying now. “Yes, Joe, I am. I am perfectly all right.”

“I thought you would be. I mean, I knew you would be. I just…I had to make sure.” Joe was quiet for a long moment. Methos let the silence stretch on, knowing that he could do nothing to ease it, knowing that Joe had to decide what to say next all on his own. And he did, with all the frankness Methos had come to expect from him. “Adam, you’re Immortal.”

Silence. Darkness. Heaviness of heart and tongue.... Methos wished he could just let the silence last, could put his answer off forever. *Joe, I never wanted to hurt you, never. The whole reason I let you be noble and push me away in the first place was to avoid this moment. If only I could freeze time…stay right here in this darkness, never have to have you know for sure…* But of course it was too late for that. Joe already knew. All he needed was the confirmation. “Yes, Joe. I am Immortal.”

He expected Joe to turn around and walk right back out, shut the door and never come back. Instead Joe just reached out a hand, groping along the wall for a light switch. “Cover your eyes,” he said. A second later clean white light flooded the space. It was a shock, and Methos flinched, moving back into the slight shadow afforded by the low platform bed. Joe crossed the floor and stood over him, staring down at his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to,” Methos answered honestly. “I thought about telling you a thousand times. But I always ended up deciding that I couldn’t do that to you. Couldn’t make you choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Choose between me and your Watcher Oath,” Methos spelled out, surprised that Joe hadn’t immediately understood. “Joe, I’m an Immortal with full access to the Watcher Chronicles. Have you thought about what that means? If I wanted, I could use that information to help me take heads, maybe even win the Prize. That’s not what I want…in fact, I’ve only ever used the Chronicles to stay out of the way of Immortals who wanted to come after *me*…but who would believe that? Especially now, after Horton’s betrayal? I knew the moment you discovered what I was you’d have to decide: either do the right thing and turn me in to the Council, or break your oath and let me stay as I am.” Methos stared down at the floor. “I didn’t want to put you in that position.”

“Oh, Adam.” Awkwardly, groaning softly at the pain in his over-used hip joints, Joe lowered himself onto the bed. “I’m not going to turn you in. The thought never even crossed my mind.” He shook his head ruefully. “Believe me. Of all the things that went through my head tonight, reporting you to the Council wasn’t one of them.”

“Then what have you been thinking about?”

“You really want to know?” Methos nodded slowly. Joe sighed. “It’s you,” he said. “I’ve just been thinking about you. Funny, isn’t it? All those things a man worries about happening to his lover, all the things I’ve spent the last seven years worrying about happening to *you*…muggings, hate crimes, heart disease, AIDS…I’ve been thinking that I’ll never have to worry about any of it again. I should be happy, so very happy that you’re never going to grow old or get sick or do any of the other things that are inevitable for the rest of us. But instead…” Joe gave a weak little shrug. “Instead, now every time the phone rings, I’m going to have to wonder if it’s Don or someone calling to tell me that they found your decapitated body lying on the street. It doesn’t seem quite fair.”

A wild hope flared in Methos’s soul. He squelched it immediately, telling his soul not to be such an idiot. But his heart insisted on speeding up anyway, pounding irascibly against his ribcage. “Lover?” he repeated, not daring to believe. “Joe, I—”

“Shhh, Adam. Let me talk.” Joe held up his hand. “It’s been a hard night, okay? I’ve had to face things I never wanted to face, do what I never wanted to do. For god’s sake, a member of my family is lying at the bottom of the Seine, dead by my own hand. I should be thinking about him and Lynn, mourning what could have been. Instead…instead the only thing I can think about is you.” He met Methos’s startled glance, looked unblinking into Methos’s eyes. “The one and only thought that has been in my head ever since MacLeod put me in that cab is that the man I love, the most beautiful man I’ve ever known, has a shot at seeing forever. And my heart is glad…”

Anxious, tension filling every muscle, Methos pushed himself out of his sprawl and into a more alert sitting position. His chest felt very strange and tight. “Love?” he asked quietly, and held his breath. He wouldn’t breathe again until he heard the answer. 

“Adam, I never stopped either.”

And the world changed again, became as different a place as it had the moment Joe learned the truth. The breath rushed back into Methos’s lungs with all the sweetness of manna from heaven, a hundred times better than the breath that had accompanied his earlier resurrection. Resurrection? What an overblown word for that simple and inevitable function of his Immortal body. This, this was the real thing. Rather clumsily, Methos got up off the floor and sat on the bed at Joe’s side, staring at the mortal Watcher with hungry, incredulous eyes. Joe looked back without flinching. And when Methos closed his eyes and slowly bent his head, Joe’s lips were under his without a moment of hesitation. 

Good. Too good. Too good to be real. Joe wrapped his arms around Methos’s body and pulled them insistently backward. Still not really believing that this was actually happening, Methos tried to pull away, tried to give Joe enough time to truly realize what he was doing…but Joe wouldn’t let him go. Methos resisted for a moment longer and then surrendered, letting Joe’s strength carry them both back onto the bed. They collapsed onto the mattress, the kiss becoming deeper, almost desperate as Joe clung to him. Methos’s own desperation was only slightly tempered by the wonder he felt. *He knows! He knows. And he still wants me. Me...* 

Joe’s hands slid down his back, plucking insistently at the soft waffle texture of his robe. Methos broke the kiss just long enough to remove the offending fabric, closing his eyes with a groan when Joe leaned forward to kiss his chest, his fingers sliding down to Methos’s waist. The incredibly feeling of those calloused fingertips gliding over his skin was enough to make him jump. “So beautiful,” Joe murmured, the sound hushed and oddly muffled as he whispered into the skin over Methos’s heart. “Even more beautiful than I had remembered. Adam, do you have any idea?”

“Only because you make me feel it,” Methos answered, startled to find that his voice was shaking. “Most of the time, to me it’s just a body.”

“Oh, no. Adam, it’s so much more than that.” Joe’s voice was so certain, so thick with hunger and love, that Methos felt a shiver run down his spine. “And just think. A hundred years from now, people will still have a chance to look at you, look at you and see what I see. It’s almost enough to make me think there really is a god after all. One whose work is good.” Joe looked up at him and smiled, the undeniable lust in his eyes not obscuring the essential sweetness of the expression in the least. “It’s a miracle, Adam. There simply is no other word.”

Methos shook his head from side to side, his heart too full to speak. *No, Joe, no. Immortality isn’t a miracle at all. The only miracle here is that every now and then there is a mortal born who can see it that way, see it and not be afraid. A mortal like you...* He kissed Joe again with all the passion he could muster, pouring all his desire and love for the man into the act. Joe took it for several moments, then somehow managed to squirm out from underneath him and take control. The strongly muscled upper body pushed Methos insistently down into the blankets, and the equally strong broad hands…god, how Methos had dreamed of those hands!—swept down his chest to his boxers. When Joe pushed the waistband down and took Methos’s cock in his hand, Methos mumbled a protest, but even as he did he knew that a mumble was the only objection he was going to be able to make. It just felt so damn good… 

Joe understood. “Later,” he said, his eyes full of promise. “Later we’ll get more complicated. I know you must have learned a lot over the years, have a lot of things you want to show me. But not now. I’ve been thinking about this for so long, dreaming about they way you looked the first time I made you come. I want so bad to see that look again. I *need* to see it, Adam.” Joe’s hand started moving with a sexy, incredibly self-assured rhythm, and with a start Methos realized that Joe did indeed know exactly what to do. He was using the same strokes “young Adam” had shown him all those years ago, remembering with uncanny accuracy the touches that had brought him so much pleasure then. The fact that Joe still remembered so clearly…coupled with Joe’s assurance that there would be another time…combined in Methos’s heart to make a happiness so great he’d only tasted it once or twice before. He shrieked as Joe’s fingers squeezed him tightly, arched up and came. 

Joe, looking as smugly satisfied as if he’d been the one to have the orgasm instead of Methos, kissed him sweetly and then dropped his hand to his own groin, moaning softly as he rubbed himself through his pants. Methos, whose ears were still ringing from the force of his release, watched him bonelessly for several moments before he recovered enough to bat Joe’s hand away. Maybe Joe didn’t want “complicated”, at least not that night. But Methos would be damned if he let the man get away with coming in his trousers, not when he had an impatient Immortal lover who was desperate to touch and feel and *see*. He got Joe’s pants and underwear out of the way and rolled them over, covering Joe’s body with his own as he started to stroke and pump; Joe muffled his cries against Methos’s shoulder as his climax built, then shouted out helplessly when the moment finally arrived. Methos drank in the sound the same way he drank in the sweet contorted pain of Joe’s expression, loving it, loving him. Spent, Joe slumped back into the bed. Methos licked his seed from his fingers and gathered him in, tucking Joe’s body snugly in between his arm and chest. Eventually, he found the courage to speak. “Joe?”

“Yes, Adam?”

The words came out a bit wistfully. “You’re not going to throw me out in the morning this time, are you?”

He could feel Joe’s chuckle all the way down to his toenails. “Adam, this is your apartment. It would be pretty damn rude of me to throw you out of your own place, wouldn’t it?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I guess I do.” Joe looked sad. “I never wanted to throw you out, Adam. But a lot of the reasons I did still apply. It’s not quite as bad to be a gay Watcher as it used to be, but it still isn’t easy.”

“I know.”

“And I’m currently on trial for treason,” Joe continued. “God only knows what the Tribunal is going to decide to do with me. It might not be good for you to be too closely associated with me, Adam. Especially now that you…now that we both…have another secret to keep.” Joe’s expression turned grim. “It would kill me if something happened to you because I slipped up and someone found out you were Immortal from me. It would, Adam.”

“I know that, too.”

“But…” Joe smiled. “But I’ve been miserable without you for the last seven years, and the moment I saw you at Don’s I knew that throwing you out last time was the worst mistake I’d ever made. I’m not going to do it again, Adam. Not ever.” He touched Methos’s face tenderly. “Besides. I’m dying to know just where you learned to kiss like that. If I throw you out, you’ll never get a chance to tell me, now will you?”

The question made Methos glow. *I finally have a lover I can tell the truth to,* he thought ecstatically. *Joe, I have a thousand answers to that question, and for you I’ll tell them all. But not tonight. Tonight I want to forget my 5,000 years of past. Tonight, I just want to enjoy being with you.* 

He hugged Joe tighter still and rested his head on his chest, convinced for the first time in centuries that everything was going to be all right.

***

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Tribunal. Have you reached a conclusion?”

“We have.”

“Please state your findings so that they may be entered into the official record.”

“Let the official record show that this Tribunal has reached the following conclusion: Joseph Dawson, Area Coordinator of the Pacific Northwest, United States, North American Continent, is herby pronounced to be as guilty as charged. We find that he did indeed break his Oath by betraying the secret of the Watchers to the Immortal Duncan MacLeod.” Murmurs rang out from every corner of the Council chamber. Joe, sitting in the hard, straight-backed chair traditionally reserved for the accused, closed his eyes. The chairman cleared his throat. “He is hereby reduced in rank to Supervisor of Operations for the City of Seacouver, with the corresponding cut in salary and benefits. However, due to the…unique nature of the events surrounding this inquiry, the Watcher Council has also voted to allocate the funds for a special project: the establishment of a new headquarters in the city of Seacouver to replace the now defunct Juniper Street Books. This new headquarters, a blues club to be known as Joe’s Bar, is our way of thanking Mr. Dawson for his courage and heroism in bringing the treachery of the Traitor Horton to light. We have no doubt that the bar will be a great success.” The chairman closed the file he was reading from. “This matter is now officially closed.”

Ten minutes later, Joe Dawson was limping out of the great chateau that was the European Headquarters, surrounded by a crowd of congratulating Watchers. It felt a bit like being the President of the United States walking into the annual State of the Union speech. All kinds of tattooed arms reached out to touch Joe as he passed, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. However, Joe only cared about seeing one person, and suddenly there he was: standing in the gravel driveway that circled the chateau, leaning against his damned prehistoric Volvo with what could only be described as a smirk. “I heard,” Adam said, when Joe managed to limp his way through the crowd to tell him the news. “Congratulations, Joe.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Joe said. “Not just pardoned, but put in charge of building the new Seacouver Headquarters? And those headquarters are supposed to be a blues club? A place of my own?” The smirk on Adam’s face became positively conceited. “Adam,” Joe said, suddenly suspicious. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

“I might have said something to Don about the sort of cover operation I felt would be most useful in a city like Seacouver. You know, the best for blending in,” Adam said. “And Don may have seen to it that the idea reached the appropriate ears…but neither of us really did anything, Joe. The Council decided you deserved this honor all on their own.”

Honor. Yes, Joe supposed that’s what it was, although to be truthful his brain hadn’t quite caught up with it all yet. To be found guilty, then given a slap on the wrist, then handed a lifelong dream all in the space of a few seconds…Joe’s head was still spinning. Adam gave him a sympathetic smile. “Come,” he said, placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I’ve made reservations for dinner in Paris. If we leave now, we should just be able to make it.”

Joe let himself be herded into the passenger seat, firmly lost in the never-never land of a man who has suddenly been handed his fondest wish. Already he was thinking of possible locations for the new club, of the way he’d arrange the stage and the seating, of the musicians he’d invite to play. Adam smiled knowingly and drove on in silence, the green countryside slowly giving way to buildings and shops as they neared Paris. Suddenly Joe sat up straight. “Don! Don doesn’t know what the verdict was. I bet he’s frantic…”

With another smirk, Adam removed the cell phone from his coat pocket and handed it over. “Thanks,” Joe said sheepishly. “I really need to get one of these for myself.” He dialed Shakespeare and Co. “Don? Don, I just wanted to tell you the council reached a verdict at last…oh, you already heard? Wow, I thought only bad news moved that quickly. Yeah, yeah, it’s the best news I’ve had in years. Thanks. Yeah, I can hardly believe it myself. Sorry, what was that? A party at the shop to celebrate?” Joe shot a look at Adam, who merely smiled and shrugged as if to say “your call”. “Uh, no. No thank you, Don. I’ve already made plans. Adam’s taking me out to dinner.” There was a lengthy pause, and then Joe suddenly turned bright pink. “Yeah, well, I think I’ve crossed that line already, old friend. But I promise we’ll both be careful.” He listened intently, then chuckled softly. “Yeah, all right, not too careful. Thanks, Don. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Joe lowered the phone, staring in confusion at all the buttons. Adam took it from him and ended the call with a beep, then tucked the phone back into his pocket, all without taking his eyes from the road. “I take it we’ve been outed,” he said. 

“To Don, anyway,” Joe agreed. “Adam, you didn’t…”

“Tell him myself? Of course not.” Adam answered. “But Don has some of the sharpest eyes in the business, and we haven’t been as discrete as we could have been where he’s concerned. I’m not surprised he figured it out.”

“No. I guess I’m not either.” Joe settled back into his seat. “He seemed more pleased than upset. Said it was about time I came to my senses. Then he told me to have fun, and not to do anything he wouldn’t do.”

Adam chuckled, a deeply happy sound. “And you told him it was already much too late for that?”

“Yup.” Joe looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think he’ll tell anyone else, Adam.”

“No,” Adam confirmed. “Not even Christine. Don’s much too good a friend for that. But we’ll have to make sure we give him a chance to gloat about it in private.” Adam stretched his hand across the car seat. Somewhat shyly, feeling ridiculously like a seventeen year old on his way to the junior prom, Joe took it. “I suppose we really should stop by Shakespeare and Co. on our way to the restaurant just to give him a chance to beam at us and pop open some champagne,” Adam said. “But I’m afraid I’m feeling selfish.”

Something about the way Adam pronounced that last word made Joe’s heart go pitter-pat. “Selfish?”

“I want you all to myself tonight.”

Dinner was everything Joe could have dreamed of. The restaurant was a small place with only a handful of tables, but it had the exquisite service and menu only the Parisians could truly claim. Joe got the impression from the staff that Adam was a very regular and well-respected customer, which made him wonder just often how the kid could afford to eat at a place like this. Joe thought about offering to pay, but the look of pride on Adam’s face as he tasted the wine and ordered both meals stopped him. Maybe the kid’s mysterious Uncle Ben had left him more than just a building, or maybe Adam had just been saving up for a while. Either way, Joe was not going to embarrass him by questioning his bank balance right there in the restaurant. Joe could always lend the kid some money later on if it looked like he was in trouble…and the thought that, from now on, he’d be in Adam’s life deeply enough to *know* whether or not the kid was in that kind of trouble filled Joe with warm pride. When the waiter came to clear away the first course, Joe spoke. “Adam. I want to talk to you about something.”

“Just a moment, Joe.” The waiter, using an obsequious tone Joe seldom heard from Parisian waiters himself, had just asked if Monsieur Pierson had found everything to his liking. “The mushrooms were delicious, but the scallops were a touch overdone,” Adam said smoothly. “Quite rubbery, as a matter fact. Is Maurice not in the kitchen tonight?” The waiter mumbled something into his chest. Adam raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I see. Hitting the bottle again, is he? That’s too bad. His food is clearly suffering. Tell Maurice that Monsieur Pierson said if he doesn’t improve, I will have a word with his employers. This is much too fine an establishment to be spoiled by sloppy cooking.” The waiter, looking absolutely terrified, mumbled an acknowledgment and fled into the kitchen. Adam returned his attention to the table, only to find Joe staring at him curiously. “Joe? Is something wrong?”

“No, Adam. Not wrong. I was just thinking how much I still have left to learn about you, that’s all.” Adam smiled, a tiny, teasing little smile that would have been smug if it wasn’t for the heart-deep happiness shining behind it. Joe suddenly found himself wishing they were in private so he could kiss the boy breathless. Oh, well. There would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, he needed to make the offer that had been in the back of his head since the verdict. “Adam, I want you to come to Seacouver with me.”

“You do?”

Methos was startled. Thus far, he’d been doing a remarkable job avoiding thinking about Joe’s return to the Rainy City, a return now made inevitable by the Council’s decision. Instead he’d been concentrating on his joy that Joe had gotten off without any severer punishment. “You want me to go with you?”

“Of course I do,” Joe said. “I can’t stay in Paris, Adam. We’ve probably got a few months before the paperwork gets settled, but eventually I’ll have to go back to the States to start the bar, and I want you at my side when I do. I know you don’t know as much about running a club as you did about running a bookstore, but you know how to tell good music from bad, and you probably know more about the world’s best microbrews than I do. I could really use your help.” Methos said nothing, feeling deeply touched. Joe lowered his voice. “Besides. There’s someone in Seacouver I want you to meet.”

Methos grinned. “Taking me home to meet your mom and dad already?”

“Brat,” Joe said fondly. “You know as well as I do that they both died during the ‘70s. No. It’s somebody else.” He lowered his voice further still. “I want you to meet Duncan MacLeod.”

The icy fingers of trepidation started trailing over Methos’s back. “Duncan MacLeod?” he repeated hollowly. “Why on earth would you want me to meet him?”

“Because,” Joe said. “There’s a lot more Immortal activity in Seacouver than there is in Paris, Adam. If you’re going to live there with me, you’re going to need protection. Strong protection from somebody who knows exactly what you are.”

“Oh.” Methos wanted to laugh. Joe actually had the misguided idea that knowing Duncan MacLeod would keep him safe! “I won’t say that the number of Immortals in Seacouver doesn’t worry me, Joe. It *is* a much more dangerous place to be. But I’m stronger than I look. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah,” Joe said fervently. “Yeah, I believe that, after I saw you in action that night on the docks. That was one damn neat bit of shooting, Adam. Not to mention the tackle.” Joe frowned. “But it’s not good enough. A gun won’t get you out of every Challenge. Didn’t Darius tell you that?”

“Darius?”

“Yeah. Darius. At least now I understand why you wouldn’t tell me how the two of you became friends.” Joe looked thoughtful. “I think if I was in your shoes, I would have gone to him, too.”

Methos frowned. There was something he wasn’t quite following here. “My shoes?”

“If I was a young Watcher who had suddenly discovered he was Immortal, I mean,” Joe said calmly. “Darius was your teacher, wasn’t he?” Methos stayed silent, not trusting himself to speak. “You must have gone through the Chronicle of every Immortal in Paris, trying to find a teacher to take you on,” Joe went on. “I think you made a good choice. Darius was one of the best. There’s just one thing I don’t understand.” Joe cocked his head curiously to one side. “Why not go to MacLeod as well? He’s made a habit of watching out for new Immortals, and he’s one of the best fighters around. He could have taught you much more about swordsmanship than Darius. I would have…” Joe lowered his voice. “I would have seen to it that you got a discrete introduction, if I’d known.”

*He thinks I’m a young Immortal. He thinks Darius was my teacher.* Methos didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How on earth could they have misunderstood each other so badly? “Duncan MacLeod is a little too active in the Game for my tastes,” he said in a choked voice. “And I wanted to keep you out of it, Joe.”

“Yeah? Well, I appreciate that. But I think I’m pretty well in it, now.” Joe said earnestly. “Adam, think about going to MacLeod. You need a teacher. The fencing you did after the Academy just isn’t going to cut it now. The Game is not a game, no matter how much we Watchers like to romanticize it. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I do know that, Joe,” Methos replied, choosing words very carefully, feeling a large part of his heart wither as he did. “Believe me, I know.” Oh, god. How could he have been so wrong? Joe hadn’t accepted the truth after all…it wasn’t him, the real Methos, that Joe had fallen in love with. Instead it was just Adam Pierson, the kid Joe thought he’d initiated into the art of love all those years ago. A kid who’d had something extraordinary happen to him in the meantime, true, but who was essentially unchanged. *So close,* Methos’s treacherous brain started singing, and he gripped the edge of the table to keep from doubling over with the pain of it. *So very close…* 

“Good.” Joe said. He gave Methos a wistful look. “Adam, if you don’t want to go to MacLeod, you’ve got to promise me you’ll seek out another teacher, one with the skills to really teach you to survive. There’s no way I can stand it otherwise.”

“Then worry no more, Joe Dawson,” Methos said hollowly. “If there’s one thing I put at the top of my list, it’s survival.” He picked up the bottle of wine that was sitting on the table and mechanically topped up Joe’s glass. “Now, I want to hear what you’ve got planned for this club of yours. You do have plans, don’t you? Something tells me that you’ve been building this place in your dreams for years.”

“Ever since I got back from ‘Nam,” Joe answered immediately, with a glow that almost made Methos ashamed of the hurt he was feeling. After all, it wasn’t Joe’s fault he hadn’t seen the truth. The real Methos was something that was beyond even the most empathic mortal’s comprehension. Methos should have never have let himself forget that. He listened intently while Joe went on about his hopes and plans, nodding and smiling and busily shoving his pain to the very darkest corner of his mind. Tonight was Joe’s night, a night for the Watcher to revel in his good fortune. Methos would help him celebrate… 

…and tomorrow would be soon enough to find an excuse for why Young Adam couldn’t move to Seacouver, probably an excuse involving his work on the Methos Chronicle. After all, there were hardly the resources to do the research he needed in the States, were there? Joe would be disappointed…and would undoubtedly tease him mercilessly about his “obsession” with the oldest of the old… but he would understand. Especially if Adam promised to visit often. 

Which he most certainly would. A relationship with Joe was a gift too precious to be squandered lightly, whatever the strings attached. After all, Methos had spent his entire life performing one masquerade after another. For Joe, he could lock away all the parts of himself that were not Adam Pierson. For Joe, he could be anything that the other man needed him to be. Methos sipped his wine and forced his body to relax into the chair, just as he forced his mind to relax into the role Joe so clearly expected him to play. It wasn’t the heaven he’d thought he’d discovered, but it was still worth it. It was. 

He called over the waiter and ordered dessert.

**~End Adam and Joe~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The use of "Swordfish" as the Watcher Password is my way of paying homage to the great Terry Pratchett. In particular, it is an homage to "Night Watch", my all-time favorite Discworld book. (Although, honestly, picking a favorite Discworld book is like trying to pick a favorite Methos episode. It's impossible to have just one.)


	3. First Interlude

**First Interlude**

“The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.”~Frank Herbert

_~City of Seacouver, Early March, 1995~_  
_~One year later~_

 

Joe answered his phone on the very first ring. “Joe’s Bar!”

Joe couldn’t quite suppress the note of pride that rang in his voice as he said it. Getting the bar up and running had made the last few months some of the happiest Joe had ever known. And they were about to get even better. “Joe!” Adam greeted him cheerfully, and at the sound of that unmistakably accented voice Joe’s chest felt like it was about to burst open with joy. “How’s my favorite blues club owner?” Adam asked.

“If I felt any better, I’d be illegal.”

“Mmmm. You certainly would be. But only in the southern states,” Adam teased. “I take it you got my message?”

“I sure did. Your plane lands in Seacouver next Friday at seven. I can’t wait.” 

The statement wasn’t just lover-like hyperbole. The months since Joe had left Paris seemed like an eternity. It had been very hard, having his lover live halfway around the world. But now all that was going to change. Adam was finally coming to Seacouver for a long promised and long-overdue visit…and this time Joe had a whole new business to show off, one that fitted his soul in a way that nothing else ever had. He couldn’t wait for Adam to see the bar, to hear it filled with people and music. “Do you need me to pick you up?”

“No, Joe. I’ve already made arrangements to rent a car.”

Joe chuckled. “Doesn’t surprise me, after all those years of driving that death trap of a Volvo,” he said. “You just can’t wait to get your hands on something American, can you?”

“Well…” Adam sounded mournful. “As a matter of fact, the old Volvo is no longer with us. The fuel line went, and there was simply no way to save her. I’m sorry, Joe, I know I should have told you sooner. The two of you were always so close…”

“Yeah, right. Of course we were.” Joe snorted. “Does that mean you bought something new?”

“I did. Brand new model, modern in every way. It even has an FM radio.”

“Will wonders never cease!” Joe was honestly impressed. One of Adam’s many peculiarities was his fondness for older cars. Joe had long suspected that, should the long-suffering Volvo ever depart for that great used car lot in the sky, Adam would simply replace it with something even older. The thought of driving through Paris with Adam at the wheel of something that still had its suspension intact filled Joe with all kinds of warm happy feelings. “What you’d get? A convertible? SUV? New Land Rover, maybe?”

“Another Volvo.” Joe’s mouth dropped open. “Well, they were rated highest on consumer satisfaction,” Adam continued somewhat sheepishly. “This one’s a station wagon, Joe. You’ll like it, I think. It’s really big, lots of room for guitars and amps. Next time you come to Paris we won’t have to stick the neck of your guitar case out the window when I drive you to gigs.” Adam paused thoughtfully. “Or else we could just forget the music altogether and end up making out in the back seat. You never know.”

“*I* know,” Joe said positively. “I’ve made a lot of plans for the next time I visit Paris, kid, and they mostly involve throwing you down on that big comfy bed of yours and not letting you up for a week. A car, station wagon or otherwise, won’t come into it.” The sound of Adam’s throaty chuckle sent a shiver down Joe’s spine. “God,” Joe breathed. “I can’t believe you’re really going to be here next week. It’s been so long since I touched you, Adam. These last months have felt like…”

“Forever,” Adam finished for him. “I know. For me as well.”

There was no question that he meant it. Joe felt an upwelling of tenderness in his heart. The Watcher Council had allowed Joe to stay in Europe to Watch MacLeod right up until construction had begun on the bar in Seacouver, and so Joe and Adam had had several glorious, deliriously happy months together in Paris before Joe had been forced to leave. Well, as happy as they could be, given that those months had also been marred with their share of tragedy. Joe didn’t know what he would have done if he hadn’t had Adam at his side when Horton resurfaced yet again; apparently James had been wearing a bullet proof vest the night Joe had shot him at the Belle Noche Marina. It had been Adam who had helped Joe hack the new security system James had designed in order to track James down, Adam who had held him the night Duncan MacLeod had finally succeeded at doing what Joe had not, Adam who had called Lynn and the undertaker and made arrangements for James’s burial. After that, leaving the kid had seemed impossible. Only the knowledge that the property for Joe’s Bar had finally been purchased in Seacouver had actually gotten Joe’s butt on the plane. Adam had kissed him goodbye on the concourse and promised to follow soon. Joe had kissed back with all the passion that was in him, not caring, for once, who saw them or what risk they were taking. He was glad he had. The memory of that kiss and that promise was what had kept Joe going during the last five months apart… 

Well, that and Adam’s faithful daily e-mail, and even more faithful Friday morning phone call. The e-mails, coming as they did through the Watcher system, had to stay platonic and work-friendly. The phone calls did not, and Joe found himself looking forward to them all week. Even during weeks like these, when interviews and tryouts meant Joe had to keep the conversation short. “Hey, I forgot to tell you something,” he said now, remembering a bit of non-Watcher Council-friendly news he’d yet to report. “I met someone famous.”

“Really?” Adam sounded impressed. “Who? Mic Jagger? Paul McCartney? Scary Spice?”

Joe laughed. He never got tired of the kid’s teasing. “Not quite that famous, I’m afraid. Actually, infamous may be a better word.” Joe paused dramatically. “MacLeod brought Amanda by. She’s become quite the regular these last few weeks. I think she digs my singing.”

Adam’s silence went on just a moment or two longer than Joe was expecting. When did he finally say “Not *the* Amanda?” the words didn’t have quite the ring of enthusiasm Joe’d expected. *He’s probably intimidated,* Joe realized belatedly. *And I can’t blame him, either. Here he is, so new to the Game, and I tell him that Immortals of 1,000 years experience have started dropping by my bar. I had to promise him that he could sneak out the back door if MacLeod showed up before he agreed to buy his plane tickets in the first place. Damn.* “Sorry, kid,” Joe said contritely. “I didn’t think about what it might mean to you. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s Mortals Only on the nights you’re here. I’ve already told MacLeod that I’ll be hosting a delegation of Watcher high-mucky-mucks next week that would be made extremely uncomfortable by his presence. I’m sure he’ll keep Amanda away. I just wanted to tell you that I’d met her in person. It’s really quite a coup, having one of the oldest Immortals still in the Game drinking in my bar.”

There was another pause that lasted just a hair longer than Joe thought it should have. “A coup indeed,” Adam agreed. “Tell me all about it. Did MacLeod tell her you were his Watcher?”

“Yeah.” Joe chuckled, remembering the sultry way Amanda had asked him if he Watched *everything* MacLeod did. “I’m afraid our secret has slipped another notch. But she didn’t seem too upset.” He laughed again. “She told MacLeod that she liked me. Right before she told him I was in love.”

“Really?” Joe could hear the amusement in Adam’s voice. “Perceptive lady. What brought that on?”

“I was happy. I’d just gotten your latest e-mail, and I was glowing enough to light up the entire bar. Amanda wasn’t the only one who noticed.”

“Oh?” The syllable was drawn out a bit, with a hint of sexy purr. “And did you tell her she was right?”

“More or less.” Joe’s happy mood suddenly evaporated. “I made out that I was in a good mood because I was going out with Lauren. We did have plans to meet that night to go over her findings on the Delongi paintings. It seemed simplest…”

And would have been simple. Lauren Gale was gay herself, and well understood the need to have a heterosexual cover story. She was more than willing to stand in as Joe’s love interest when asked, a favor Joe had returned on more than one occasion. Her death at the hands of the Immortal Thorne had been an incredible loss to Joe, even if wasn’t the romantic loss everyone else assumed it to be. On the phone, Adam was quiet. He didn’t say a word, but somehow the silence radiated a sympathy that made the pain easier to bear. “Sorry,” Joe said. “It’s just still kind of hard, y’know? Lauren was a very fine lady.”

“I know, Joe.” There was no teasing in the beautiful voice now, just understanding. “When I get out there, we’ll drive down to Kirkland to put some flowers on her grave. I’d like to pay my respects, as well.”

Joe shook his head, once again overwhelmed by the absolute perfection of his lover. “Have I told you recently what a miracle you are?”

“Not in the last few days. But I haven’t told you either, so I think we’re even.” Adam’s voice took on a tone of deep tenderness. “I’ll be there next week, Joe. I love you.”

“I love you too, Adam.”

*** 

Methos hung up the phone and stared desolately out at his office, resisting the urge to bang his head against his desk. Damn it all, Amanda’s arrival in Seacouver was a complication he hadn’t been expecting. Staying out of the Highland child’s way was one thing. After a lot of argument, Joe had finally understood “young Adam’s” reservations about meeting up with MacLeod, and had reluctantly promised to keep the Highlander away from the bar during the weeks Methos would be in Seacouver. But Amanda? Methos shuddered. It had been more than a hundred and fifty years since he’d last crossed paths with the Immortal minx, but he was sure one thing was still true: Amanda was a law unto herself. If you asked her not to go someplace, it was only a matter of time before she decided to see just what you were trying to keep her away from. Methos shook his head fractiously. He’d known this visit to the Rainy City was a bad idea all along… 

A bad idea. But necessary, all the same. Methos allowed his hands to creep across his desk so he could touch the large cardboard box resting on the corner. The box was full of records and other goodies he’d collected during the last few months, planning to surprise Joe when he arrived in Seacouver. Methos hadn’t lied. He missed Joe terribly. The other man’s absence was an undeniable hole in the fabric of his life. Methos still expected to see Joe’s cane propped up against the closet door whenever he came home, still found himself feeling disappointed whenever he rolled over in the night and Joe wasn’t there at his side. To hell with it. He needed to see Joe. Joe needed to see him. His plane tickets were purchased and all the arrangements were made. No way was he going to let one devious Immortal jewel thief get in the way. 

Methos’s smile became more Machiavellian. Joe’s weekly reports had made it clear just how mercurial MacLeod’s and Amanda’s relationship really was. It shouldn’t be too hard to make her leave the city for a while. He’d give Amanda another three or four days to get bored with the child on her own and go off to steal the crown jewels of someplace or other. If that didn’t work, Methos would simply call in an anonymous tip to the Seacouver police. Amanda had a finely honed sense of self-preservation. She should be gone within the day. And if not…well, Young MacLeod was wealthy. No doubt he’d bail her out after a suitable period and take her back to his place for one of his infamous moral lectures. Which would keep both of them much too busy to go visiting bars, now wouldn’t it? 

Satisfied with this plan, Methos tidied up some papers and headed to bed for a good night’s sleep. He was completely unaware of the fact that halfway around the world, a courier had just dropped a special delivery envelope at Joe’s Bar with “Duncan MacLeod” written on the front. He didn’t know that the envelope contained the Quickening-seared remains of a rosary that had once belonged to an Immortal named Brother Paul, or that half a city away a nurse by the name of Marcia was being poisoned, or that her friend Dr. Anne Lindsey was being framed for her death. He most *definitely* didn’t know that all these things were the doings of an Immortal named Kalas, who had surfaced to make Duncan MacLeod’s friends’ lives a living hell before he Challenged the Highlander himself. And even if Methos had known, it probably wouldn’t have disturbed his sleep very much. Why should it? Kalas's vendetta was against Duncan MacLeod, someone Methos had worked very hard to avoid any ties with. Joe would be devastated if anything happened to his assignment, but having MacLeod out of the way would certainly make Methos’s life easier. Once he’d known Joe was safe, Methos would have probably rolled over and gone back to sleep, content in the knowledge that it was all Somebody Else’s Problem. It didn’t affect him in the slightest. 

The awakening would come soon enough. 

*** 

"You're kidding. Adam Pierson is Methos?" 

Later on, Joe Dawson would be amazed that he managed to say the words so calmly. Maybe it was because, deep down inside, he didn't really believe them yet. 

He couldn’t be blamed for it. Too much had happened over the last few days, too many horrible, unbelievable things, not the least of which was Don Salzer’s murder. Don. Oh, god. Don. The knowledge that he would never see the researcher wearing his absurd old sweater or hear him laugh his knowing laugh was a gaping wound, almost as large as the one caused by knowing how he’d died. MacLeod hadn’t spared Joe any of the details, something Joe couldn’t decide if he was grateful for or not. On the one hand, he was glad to know the truth, so his imagination didn’t fill in with worse horrors of its own. On the other, he knew nightmares that he hadn’t had since his first year home from ‘Nam were going to be rekindled. When MacLeod first told him that he’d found Don bleeding to death after Kalas had cut out his tongue, Joe had only had two thoughts. The first was a fervent hope that someone would have the brains to hide the coroner’s report from Christine. And the second was an intense prayer of gratitude that Adam’s plane was due in less than three days. Joe would go to the airport after all and Adam would run to him the moment he stepped off the plane, then drive them someplace quiet where they could drink and remember and mourn. They would cry in each other’s arms…together, they’d make it through… 

But then MacLeod had told him exactly what it was Don had tried to write as he died. And Joe had felt his blood had run cold. 

He’d tried to get MacLeod off the phone, saying he’d have to call him back. Kalas was after Methos…and looking for Methos could only lead him to one person, Adam Pierson. Joe knew it would only take one glance for Kalas to know what Adam was…a very young Immortal, barely a year past his first death, who had yet to fight a single Challenge. There was no way Adam could hope to survive against an Immortal of Kalas’s ruthlessness and skill. No way at all. Completely panicked, Joe had thought wildly. Then he’d done the very thing he’d promised Adam he’d never do. He’d given Adam’s address to MacLeod, practically begging the Highlander to go to Adam’s flat and make sure he was all right. Joe knew Adam would be furious. The kid had made it plain he wanted nothing to do with MacLeod. But Joe would much rather have his beloved furious than dead… 

And so he’d spent the next day and night alone in the bar, a closed sign on the door as he frantically paced the floor, going half out of his mind as he waited for the phone to ring. Finally, Duncan did call, with news that Joe could only refer to as “mixed”. Kalas wasn’t dead. He was just in prison. But Duncan still had his head, as did Adam. Who, incidentally--didn’t you know, Joe? It was really very obvious, I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out all on your own--wasn’t really Adam after all. 

He was Methos. 

Somewhere across an ocean, Duncan MacLeod was speaking into a cell phone, smugly filling in the details: "I think it was his joke on you. You know. Adam, the first man?" Joe wasn't really hearing it. He answered the rest of Mac's questions on auto pilot, lost in thoughts of his own. Adam. Adam Pierson was Methos. Not a shy kid, not a newly born Immortal, but the oldest of old; a ruthless survivor of the most brutal Game history had yet devised. Adam Pierson. The great love of Joe’s life. 

Adam had lied to Joe from the very beginning.

Joe tuned back into the conversation enough to hear himself say "I'll be right there" and to hear Duncan tell him not to bother. Methos was already gone. A ridiculous pain ran through Joe with that pronouncement. Duncan seemed so certain, so damn sure that he was gone for good, had disappeared into the mists of history forever. Joe desperately wanted to protest, to wipe the conceited tone out of Duncan's voice: *No, MacLeod, he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't just run away, wouldn't leave his friends and colleagues in a lurch. Wouldn't go without explaining to *me*. Not my Adam...* 

Oh, crap. That kind of thinking had to stop right there. *He’s not my Adam, not anymore. Not ever again. He’s Methos. A stranger...* 

Joe said his good-byes to MacLeod. And then he poured himself a drink. 

*** 

The club by the wharf where the amazing alto had sung eight years before had changed hands several times. The current owner had swept the floors and banished most of the smoke, confining tobacco use to a few small tables in the back, but Seacouver's young jazz musicians still paid their dues there every Saturday night. Joe looked blearily at the small glass in front of him, wondering how many more shots it was going to take to get him through the night. The fact that it was almost certainly going to exceed the number he'd drunk last night, just as that number had outnumbered the night before that, didn't bother him. It was all part of the ritual. 

God. How many times had he gone through it now? It happened almost every time he lost a good friend to violence. The day MacLeod had called with the news of Don’s murder, Joe had drunk a single shot in the afternoon and one more at bedtime to help him sleep. The next day it was two shots at lunch and three at bedtime, and the number had been increasing in fits and starts ever since. Soon, Joe would break down and drink a whole bottle of Scotch while the memories rose and fell, and after he woke up from *that* he would spend a fevered, sleepless 24 hours at the guitar, until he slept from pure exhaustion for another day and night. Then, slowly, he would be able to resume his life without Don in it. Eventually the memories would even start to bring him strength, instead of pain... 

He wasn't ready for the entire bottle yet, though. For now he simply needed another few drinks, and he was still healthy enough to seek out a public place to drink them in. The human voices around him were soothing, reminding him that there *would* be a life when he finished his mourning; it certainly beat the echoing silence of his house. Joe let his foot tap idly to the music filling the bar, wondering if he'd ever managed to get Don here. Probably not. Don's tastes ran more to books and friendly games of kitchen table poker than serious jazz. He hadn't even lived to set foot into Joe's new bar.

A shadow fell across the table. Joe looked at the silhouette on the grainy wood, seeing the height and slenderness of the form, and the flapping edges of a trench coat. "Hello, Joe.”

The soft, lilting English accent curled around Joe's ears. Funny. For the first time it occurred to Joe to wonder: did Adam actually have a right to that voice? Or was the accent simply a part of his current persona, to be changed at will along with his name? Joe slowly looked up, and even though he was expecting it, he was surprised. The face looking down at him hadn’t changed *at all*, not in the last five months, not in the last eight years. Strange. He’d been so sure that Adam was a new Immortal, less than two years past his first death. Now Joe could tell that all the little changes he’d attributed to Adam’s aging in between their first and second meetings were really just tricks of expression and hairstyle. Why hadn’t he ever seen it before? "Like a living photograph," he said aloud, more in resignation than in anger. "Or a painting. You wouldn't have happened to have known Oscar Wilde, would you?”

"No," Methos answered. "But a friend of mine did. He claimed to have been the inspiration for Dorian Grey, as well." He shrugged slightly. "Always thought that book was quite overrated as a work of literature, myself.”

"Let me guess. An old friend?" Joe put a strong emphasis on "old". 

Thoughts of Byron flickered across Methos's consciousness. "Not as old as some I’ve had.”

"Hmmm." Joe considered that for a moment, then gestured to the empty chair at his table. "Sit.”

Face carefully neutral, Methos did, tucking his long legs under the tiny table with effort. He still wasn't sure what reaction he'd been expecting. Anger, probably. Or in the best of all possible worlds, understanding. Instead, Joe seemed dangerously apathetic. Methos's eyes trailed to the shot glass, wondering how many times it had already been refilled; damn, just how was he supposed to deal with this? You would think that 5,000 years of life would have given him some insight. He clasped his hands on the table and shrugged his shoulders, trying to appear casual. "So. How have you been?”

For a moment anger sparked in Joe’s eyes. Methos was sure Joe was going to yell at him, probably something along the lines of “How the hell do you think?” But it disappeared as quickly as it had come, and Joe seemed to collapse into himself, sagging down despondently into his chair. "I think 'coping' is the word," he said. "I'm doing all right.”

"Yes. I can tell." Methos nodded at the shot glass. "How many of those have you had?”

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Nowhere near enough," he answered. "And you have forfeited any right to lecture me, my friend." Methos nodded and tucked his hands into his coat pockets, admitting it. It was true. He had no right at all. Joe stared at him for a long moment, then sighed heavily and pushed the glass away. "Order yourself a drink," he said. "Then I want you to tell me why you came here.”

Methos raised his hand and flagged down the waitress, asking for a bottle of beer. Both men were silent until she dropped the bottle on the table. Then Joe said: "Well?”

*Because I love you. Because less than forty eight hours ago another Immortal challenged me for the first time in centuries, and he almost won, and now I’m frightened and grieving and have nowhere else to turn. Because my life as I knew it has ended, and you’re the only thing in that life that I truly can’t imagine going on without. Because I thought I still might have a home here, in spite of everything…* Methos pushed his thoughts away, knowing there was no way he could say them aloud. Not now. He wouldn’t be able to be that honest until he had a better feel for Joe’s state of mind, could better predict how Joe would react. He spread his hands on the tabletop. "Is there someplace else I should be?”

"Oh, no." Joe's voice was low and dangerous. "We are not going to play that game tonight Adam, or whoever the hell you really are. Evasion is not going to work. You must have known this was the worst possible place on earth for you to be. Christ! You’ve lied to me for so long. You’re not some young Immortal who needs the protection of the Watchers, you’re the oldest of the old. Who knows what else you’ve lied to me about, what purposes you’ve used the Chronicles for? You must have known I'd have to turn you in. Hell, if they knew, most of the members of the Council would expect me to wield the ax myself! So why did you come?”

Methos spoke slowly, each word carefully measured. "*Have* you turned me in, Joe?”

Joe clenched the side of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. "There's no way for you to know if I have or if I haven't," he spat. "So why did you take the risk? Come on, I'm waiting. And I warn you, it had better be good. Or I swear I *will* take your head myself.”

Methos looked at the untouched beer in front of him, the bottle cold and hard and brown against the scuffed wood of the table. “I don’t think I can give you a good reason, Joe,” he said. “Maybe I simply thought that the Joe Dawson I knew, the man I spent some of the happiest months of my life living with and sleeping beside, was the kind of person who would give a man a fair hearing before sentencing him to death.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Joe wince as if struck. Methos swallowed. "But mostly I was thinking about Don.”

Joe blinked. "Don?”

"Yes." Methos nodded, still looking at his beer. He put his fingers on the cool glass surface and twisted it around on the tabletop. "I miss him, Joe. I couldn't risk going to the funeral, and I needed to toast his life with someone else who understands his loss. You were the only one I could think of.”

For a long time Joe was silent. He studied Methos carefully, then sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, that I can understand." He called to the waitress: "Bring us a bottle of Scotch and two glasses please, sweetheart." When she brought the drinks he poured and raised his own glass high, tears glistening in his eyes. "To Don.”

"To Don.”

***

*Funny*, Joe Dawson thought a few hours later as he stumbled, more or less supported by Adam/Methos's arm, over the stoop into his house. *Maybe it only takes half a bottle of Scotch after all to complete the ritual, as long as the second half is drunk by someone else who cares. The memories seem to be settling nicely. I just might be able to play tomorrow, if my brain's still in my skull...* 

Methos got the inebriated Watcher onto his living room couch in a more or less upright position, his own hands a bit unsteady as he tried to close his mind to the remembrances raging through him. The last time he had been in Joe’s Seacouver home had been the first time they’d made love, and it seemed like nothing about the place had changed. Methos could have sworn that there were still the exact same posters on the wall, the same clutter of music books and instruments on the floor. *You’re one of the most famous and admired Watchers in all of North America, and you run your own blues club now, Joe,* he thought as he set about pulling the coat off Joe's unresisting body. *You'd think you could have at least changed your wallpaper.* But Joe hadn't, and setting foot into the old craftsman home was scarily like walking eight years into the past. 

Of course, neither of them had spent much time in the present that evening... 

*Oh, Don. Don.* The loss of his “mentor” was still a physical pain. Methos and Joe had reached an uneasy truce during the course of the evening, brought together by their mutual grief. Together they had toasted and drunk and toasted and drunk again, neither saying much, but somehow just having another person there to share the pain made it more bearable. Methos had a feeling that Don would be pleased by the way they'd spent the evening. Even if it had left Joe nearly comatose. Methos took a look at the limply sprawling Watcher and shook his head. "Come on, Joe. Let's get you undressed, and then I'll put you to bed.”

A bleary eye opened and focused on him. "'S'not fair," Joe mumbled. "You drank as much as I did. How come you can still walk?”

"You got started before I arrived, remember?”

"But I've had so much more practice." Joe replayed the words to himself and frowned. "Or...nah. Guess that isn't true, is it? The way you love your beer, you've probably survived more benders than I've had heartbeats. And you won't even have a hangover in the morning." He sniffed. "Damn Immortal constitution.”

"I would never have survived Nero's orgies without one," Methos said, reflecting ironically that *that* statement was true in more ways than one. "Be grateful, Joe. Having an experienced Immortal for a drinking buddy means you never have to go to bed with your boots on.”

"Ain’t wearin' any boots.”

"Loafers, then. And your prosthetics, too. I'll help you out of them as soon as we get you undressed." He started unbuttoning Joe's shirt. 

Joe batted his hands away. "I can take care of that myself, thank you.”

"Joe," Methos said, exasperated. "You couldn't even unlock your own front door without help. Let me take care of you, all right? It’s not like I’ve never done it before.”

Joe looked unhappy and closed his eyes. Methos could tell that the Watcher was sending his mind elsewhere, disconnecting from what Methos had to do. Against his will, Methos remembered the last time he had done this for Joe in Paris, and how Joe had felt no shame. The difference in attitude told him everything he needed to know. *Different times*, he thought to himself, mentally repeating the words like a mantra. *These are different times, old man. What you had is gone for good. He knows you lied to him now, and that’s the one thing a man like Joe Dawson can never forgive. Get him to bed in one piece, and then get the hell out. It’s time to say goodbye.* 

He worked slowly, carefully stripping off the wrinkled clothes while disturbing Joe as little as possible. When he got down to Joe's legs and boxers, Methos hesitated, wondering if he should give Joe the dignity of walking into the bedroom under his own power. A loud snore from Joe quickly squelched that idea. Oh, well. It wasn’t like he hadn’t lifted far heavier weights in his time. Methos removed the artificial legs and awkwardly hefted Joe into a fireman's carry, deposited him on his bed, then returned to the living room for the prosthetics. He propped them up next to the bed where Joe would be sure to see them the moment he opened his eyes, not wanting the other man to have even a moment of perceived helplessness when he woke up. Then Methos pulled a blanket over him and started to leave. 

Joe's voice stopped him. "Adam?”

"Yes, Joe?”

"If I asked you a question, would you tell me the truth?”

Methos hesitated. He'd left the bedroom door open, and the light spilling in from the hallway clearly illuminated Joe's face. Not only was Joe clearly awake, he looked much more sober than he had any right to. “I might,” he said. “I suppose it depends on the question. What do you want to ask me, Joe?”

"Does it really matter to you? When we die?”

The question felt like a full-on body blow from an opponent out for his head. Methos sat down heavily on the bed, his face in his hands. "Yes," he said. "Yes. It matters very much.”

"Why?”

"Why on earth would you think it wouldn't?" Methos snapped. Joe pulled back into his pillows, startled by Methos’s vehemence. "I'm *human*, Joe. I heal quickly and I can live for a very long time, yes, but nothing has ever proven to me that I am not. Of course it matters to me when a good friend dies. Especially..." He took a deep, shaky breath, feeling a warm tear collect on the ends of his eyelashes. "Especially when one dies because of me.”

"Whoa. Easy there, kid. Easy," Joe said softly, and neither man chose to question his use of the word "kid". He opened his arms, a welcoming haven in the dark. Methos went into them, knowing as he did that it was a bad idea...but the pent up grief was starting to shake his body with uncontrollable sobs, and if he didn't hold onto Joe it felt like the whole world would dissolve. "Don didn't die because of you," Joe said as the tremors ran through him. "He died because of Kalas.”

"Who was looking for me!”

"Who was looking for power, not for you." Joe answered. "Don would have died even if Methos had turned out to be a myth.”

"But I was the one who re-opened the Methos Chronicle. I was the one who got Don involved in the research. I was the one who put him in Kalas's path. Don't you see? Don died trying to protect me. And *he never even knew what I was*…”

"Adam. Stop it, now." Joe's words were gentle but firm. Methos shook silently, trying to get a grip on himself. "What if's and self-blame never bring anyone back. You're too old to think it will. *Much* too old.”

The ironic twist Joe gave to that last sentence brought a wobbly smile to Methos's lips. "True," he said. "But knowing that doesn't mean I won't do it anyway. God, Joe. If only I'd had just one more day...a chance to tell him, a chance to say goodbye..."

"Yeah. I know. I keep thinking the very same thing." Joe stroked Methos's hair calmly. "Ah, hell, kid. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked if it mattered to you. I know it does. I think I was just trying to wrap my head around who and what you are. Seemed to me that after losing so many of us, you'd have to insulate yourself from the feelings. You'd have to stop yourself from caring, just to keep from going mad.”

Methos stiffened. "A lot of Immortals do, Joe.”

Joe kept up the stroking. "I know.”

"But it's the ones who do insulate themselves that end up going mad. Not the ones who keep caring." Methos slumped despondently in Joe’s lap. "I have to love and lose and hurt and keep myself open to it happening all again, just like you. If I don't, the only thing life has to offer is numbness. I'd become a Kalas." He shuddered. "And trust me, Joe. That is not something the world would want to see.”

Joe nodded. The thought of a 5,000 year old Immortal with Kalas's ruthlessness and Methos’s intelligence was not something he wanted to contemplate too deeply. He gave Methos's hair one last, thoughtful pat, then carefully brushed his lips across his temple. Methos twisted in his arms, attempting to see his face through the shadows. "Joe?”

"Yes?”

"What do you think you're doing?”

"I believe it's called kissing," Joe said calmly. "Don’t look so surprised. I know you've run into it before." Methos stayed silent. Joe sighed. "It was my way of working up to ask if you wanted to stay. I don't think either of us needs to be alone tonight." 

Methos's chest suddenly tightened, his breath working hard to escape. "I really don't think that's a good idea, Joe.”

"Why not?" With a grunt of effort Joe slid his body over in the bed and turned down the covers. He patted the sheets in invitation. Methos didn't budge. "Look, Adam. Both of us are tired, and lonely, and drunk. I don't want you on the road tonight. I want you to stay--for sex if you're interested, for sleep if you're not. Just stay with me. All right?”

Methos closed his eyes against the sudden flood of desire he felt. He didn't want to face his need, or how much the simple, honest invitation meant to him. "Joe," he said softly. "That's really not a good idea.”

"You already said that. Why not?”

"*Because* we are both tired, and lonely, and drunk. Those are not the best conditions to make these sorts of decisions under." He swallowed, pain rising. "And even if we were both at our best, it still would not be smart.”

"Why not?”

"You have no idea who I really am.”

Methos was surprised when he heard the words. They weren't what he’d intended to say. But they were the truth. Joe *didn’t* know what he was, could never even begin to understand. Knowing this was the whole reason Methos had kept silent for all these months.

But Joe seemed to have other ideas. "Don't I?" he asked baldly. "I've been thinking about that, you know.”

"You have?”

"Yes." Joe nodded. "I've been thinking about it ever since MacLeod first told me who you were. I’ve been trying to sort out what I know about you from what I don't. And I keep coming back to the same conclusion. I think I know you better than either of us believes.”

*Breathe, old man,* Methos thought. He reached for the edge of the bed and steadied himself against it, the thick softness of the mattress warm against his palms. "Do you?”

"I think so," Joe answered. "Oh, I know I can't begin to understand your past, Adam. Even if you told me every single thing you’ve ever done, everything you’ve seen, my brain still couldn't wrap around it. I don't think any mortal could truly understand that part of you. But who and what you are *right now*--that I can know. Do know." He took a deep breath. "You're a good man, Adam. A good friend, and a better lover. Eight years ago when we slept together for the first time--”

Pain spasmed in Methos's chest like a hand clutching his heart. He had to bring that up now? "Joe. That wasn't the real me. You have to know I wasn't...”

The Watcher held up a hand. "Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to interrupt? It's all right, Adam. I know there's no way you were...what I thought you were. But you were willing to pretend, willing to give an older--pardon me, a *younger* man-- the gift of thinking he was showing you something new. And tonight, not only did you risk your life to mourn a lost friend with a lover you had no reason to think would welcome you with open arms, you took said drunken lover home, undressed him and made sure his legs would be within reach when he woke up. Those aren't the actions of an asshole who lives a lie because he enjoys laughing at the people who fall for it, Adam. Those are the actions of a decent human being." Joe's voice softened. "And I could use a decent human being in my bed tonight, whatever the hell your name and age actually happen to be. In my life, too, for what it's worth.”

He closed his mouth and looked at Methos, waiting. Methos looked him over carefully, surveying Joe in the dim light. "You still trust me," he said slowly. "Even though I lied to you.”

"Yes, Adam. I think I do.”

"I may not always be worthy of that trust, Joe," Methos said warningly. How to explain? "I will never be able to tell you the whole truth about my past, and I will probably have to lie to you a thousand times more. I...I have to survive, Joe. No matter what. That means the people I care about often get hurt.”

Joe nodded. "I know, Adam. I've been watching Immortals for most of my life, now. I know what the Game does to you, what it forces you to be. And I understand." The musician gently touched the pillow beside him. "Come here. Let me make love to you. Maybe then you can forget it all. For a little while anyway.”

Methos surrendered. He stood up and pulled back the covers, entire body already anticipating Joe's touch. But as he swung one leg onto the bed, a sudden faintness told him that whatever they were going to do would have to be fast. His muscles were screaming painful reminders that he hadn't slept in almost 72 hours. "Joe?”

"Yes, Adam?”

He fought the urge to laugh. "I--oh, damn. Joe, I'm *tired*. It has been one hell of a couple of days. I'm exhausted...”

"And lonely, and drunk," Joe finished for him. "Yeah, I know. Not exactly the best makings for an epic night of passion, is it." He put a strong arm around Methos's shoulders. Methos snuggled into it, gasping at the feel of Joe's skin, Joe's warmth. "It's all right," the Watcher whispered in his ear. "We'll think of something.”

And they did. Or rather Joe did, touching Methos with so much tenderness and care that he soon found at least one part of his body was still capable of arousal, even as his brain droned resolutely toward sleep. Joe didn't waste time on preliminaries. He just started stroking Methos's burgeoning erection with practiced, skillful hands, and Methos quickly found himself gripping the headboard as pleasure started singing through him. He couldn’t believe how good it felt to have Joe’s hands on him, to once again be in the bed where their whole crazy affair had started. He started thrusting helplessly into Joe’s welcoming grip, body and soul rushing headlong into the oblivion the orgasm offered. There….oh yes, there… 

Joe kissed him after he came, the sweetness of his lips like a blessing. With a Herculean effort, Methos roused himself out of his post-orgasmic languor and slid down the bluesman's body, taking Joe in his mouth. He was too tired to do much more than suck half-heartedly on Joe's crown, but it seemed to do the trick. Joe's fingers twined in his hair and a second later his back was arching, a soft moan escaping his throat as he came. "Good god," Joe said reverently after Methos had wiped his mouth and slid back under Joe's muscular arm. "Is *that* what five thousand years of practice can do for a man?”

Methos laughed tiredly. "I think you drank way too much tonight, Joe," he said, laying his head on the comforting heat of Joe's chest. "That wasn't even worth five months.”

He strained his neck to turn his head upward. Joe in turn strained his down, so that their lips met. Joe's tongue briefly flitted in his mouth, tasting the flavor of his come, and then both men lay back with a groan. "Five months, huh,” Joe murmured. "I can't wait to see the five year version.”

Methos smiled. "Just you wait, Watcher. When I'm a little more rested...yawn…I'll show you a....god, I'm tired…trick it took me 500 years to mumble mumble." The last words were lost entirely in the sweet fragrance and feel of Joe's skin against his cheek. 

Joe smiled fondly and placed a hand on Methos's head. "Go to sleep, Adam.”

"Mmmm. Shoundsgood." He nestled closer. "G'night, Joe.”

"Goodnight, Adam."

***

Methos woke up to the sound of music playing. He got up, shivered at the feel of the cool early morning air against his skin, slipped on his jeans and wandered into the living room. 

The sight that greeted him stole his breath. Joe was sitting in a living room chair in a pool of lamplight, eyes closed as his fingers played over the guitar strings. The expression on his face was transcendently serene, deep peace softening all the harsh lines of age and grief. The melody was something Methos couldn't place right away. At first it seemed to follow the rhythms of a sixties love song, then the exalted melody of a spiritual. Methos closed his own eyes and let the music move through him, somehow purifying his muscle and bone with sound alone. By the time he knew the song for what it was...an improvisation and exploration of the basic riff from "Stand By Me"...the tears were already leaking out from under his lids. When Joe finished, placing his hand over the strings to muffle them into silence, Methos could only think of one thing to say. "Thank you.”

"It was for Don.” 

"I know. That's why I was thanking you." Methos crossed the room and sat on Joe's old tweed couch. "Is this another part of the ritual?”

"You know about that?”

"Let's say I recognize the signs.”

"Yeah. I guess you would." Joe played a single chord, not a particularly melancholy one, but not quite a happy one either. It lingered in the air like a ghost. "The hardest part of losing someone is going on, building a life without them," he said. "The drinking helps unravel me, kills the old life that had them in it once and for all. Then I play to knit myself back together.”

He picked out a few more notes. They weren’t music, just a gentle wandering of his fingers over the strings, the musician’s equivalent of an artist’s doodle. Methos looked him over carefully. Joe looked deathly tired, but the apathy that had so scared Methos in the bar seemed to be gone--Joe was alive again, thinking and feeling clearly. "It seems to be working.”

Joe smiled. "Yeah, well. This time I had help.”

He looked into Methos's eyes, and suddenly Methos was back in the bedroom, recalling the night they'd just shared. “Yes. I know just what you mean,” he said, and made a sudden decision. “Joe? If I asked you, would you put on some clothes and follow me? I have a ritual of my own to complete. And I would really like to share it with you.”

Joe looked curious, but he nodded. “Where are we going?”

“To that little park down the street. Dress warm.”

A short time later the two men were walking up the sidewalk, Methos in his long black coat, Joe bundled up in a muffler and earmuffs. The sky was gray, the air rigid with the pre-dawn chill; the entire world seemed quiet and still. It was just light enough for them to be able to see without a flashlight, but the neighborhood was still asleep, with nothing more than a half-heartedly barking dog to disturb the silence. Methos felt oddly removed from it all, wrapped in his coat and the quiet, a sensation other beings might have described as womb-like. The feeling was probably appropriate. What he was about to do constituted something of a rebirth. He led Joe into the empty park, stood him under a tree, and pulled his sword from its sheath. He cradled it in his hands for a second and then offered it to Joe. “I want you two to meet.”

“What? Oh. *Oh.*” Joe stared at the gleaming blade, and Methos knew Joe understood just how important a moment this was. An Immortal’s sword, at least one he kept with him for any length of time, was a part of him. And Joe was knowledgeable enough to realize what a truly fine blade Methos’s broadsword was, what a treasure was being held before him. He reached a hesitant hand forward, gently tracing the golden lions decorating the quillon. “This can’t be anywhere near as old as you.”

“No. Not even close,” Methos agreed. “She’s only a few hundred years older than MacLeod’s katana. But she’s been a very good friend to me, all the same.”

“I can imagine.” Joe pulled back his hand. “Have you really been carrying this around with you all this time?”

“More or less. Up until this last week, I hadn’t had to use her in battle in a long, long time. But she’s pretty much always been at my side.”

“And I never noticed.” Joe looked sad. “I didn’t notice a lot of things, did I? There were clues…but I never picked up on them. Some Watcher I am.”

“Joe. You are one hell of a Watcher. I’ve just gotten very, very good at hiding, that’s all. It isn’t your fault.” He met Joe’s eyes, silently asking for understanding as he put the blade aside and started slipping out of his coat. “But I don’t want to hide any more. Will you hold onto this for me?” He held out his coat. Joe took it from him, wordlessly folding it in his arms. Methos unlaced his boots and took off his sweater as well, then carried the sword into the center of the park. He turned east, facing the direction of the rising sun bare-footed and bare-chested, raising the sword in brief salute to the yellow globe that was just making its first appearance in the sky. Then he began to move. 

Old, old muscles, made eternally new by the peculiarities of his immortal physiology, stretched and lengthened, filling with blood and strength. Methos moved easily, forcing nothing as he went through the motions that would warm him up, wanting this rite to be a celebration instead of just another training exercise. Joe had been right. The hardest part of losing a loved one was having the courage to go on without them, live a life that was irrevocably changed. To do it successfully you had to die yourself—dismantle everything that had been stable about your past, completely dissociate from the person you used to be. Joe used alcohol for that. Under other circumstances, Methos might have done the same. But this time events had done the dismantling for him. His building in Paris had been sold, his possessions put in storage; as far as the world was concerned, Adam Pierson was gone forever. Now it was time to rebuild. And just as Joe had turned to his music to put him back together, Methos turned to the one thing that had been a constant in his life for more years than he could remember. He did a slow series of thrusts and parries, testing to make sure that he really was warmed up, could now move freely without risk of strain. Then he surrendered himself to the dance. 

The blade swirled and dipped, making intricate patterns that carried him all around the park. Joe, watching, thought he had never seen anything so beautiful: no, not even when he’d watched MacLeod practice, during those rare occasions when the Highlander visibly bridged the division between body and mind and became something else all together, a weapon that existed for nothing but the battle. For Methos, there was no division, no separation to overcome. He simply moved, and Joe knew that he was finally seeing the real Methos. Everything his mind had been unable to grasp about his lover was being shown to him, laid out in a language his heart couldn’t help but understand. Joe tightened his grip on the black coat under his arm and leaned heavily on his cane, unable to tear his eyes away. 

Methos moved on and on, reveling in the feel of the grass and soil against his feet, in the purity of the air that flowed in and out of his lungs, in the sweet feeling of having a body that responded to his every thought. Life longs for life. It longs for it so much that it is even willing to put up with the ultimate penalty in order to create more of itself: annihilation, and change. Methos couldn’t create new life and he didn’t want to die, but he was tied to the cycle all the same—and as he danced on, the instrument of his eternal battle cutting the air around him, he discovered anew that he wouldn’t change this even if he could. Life longs for life. Even those few things that had escaped the never ending cycle of birth and death to step in the eternal wanted nothing more than to be a part of this cycle again. The Buddhists knew this, when they spoke of the Bodhistavas who had earned their place outside the wheel of karma only to step right back on. Even the Christians understood a little of it when they spoke of their God who had so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son to earth, to suffer and endure, but ultimately, just to be alive. And moving now, lost in the simple pleasure of being alive in the world, Methos remembered why, and could forgive himself once again for continuing on when Don and so many others had not. He didn’t live simply because he was afraid to die. He lived because he loved living, and doing so was worth any price… 

He moved through a quick series of back flips and somersaults, grinning like a child, and finally finished up on his knees, chest swelling and contracting with the quickness of his breath. Sweat was dripping from every inch of his body. His jeans clung to him like a damp second skin, and Methos let his muscles collapse, ass hitting the damp grass between his feet as his legs folded, the sword dangling limply from his hand. For a moment, it was absolute perfection, the exhaustion as sweet as the dance. Then Joe limped over to him, holding out his coat and sweater and boots. “For Don?” was all he said. 

Methos nodded. “For Don,” he agreed. “And for me. To knit myself back together. To remind myself there is a life worth going on with. It’s just like you and your music.”

“’Like me and my music,’” Joe repeated dazedly. “God. If you can for one moment put my playing in the same league as *that*, I must be the most gifted guitarist that ever lived.” A sudden flare of anger came into Joe’s eyes, and Methos took a step back, wondering just what he’d done wrong. Joe’s next sentence told him. “*Why the hell did you offer your head to MacLeod?*”

Oh. He should have known. Any display of his true skill, his real abilities with body and sword, would naturally make Joe ask the question. “Because Kalas was very, very good,” Methos said. “And because winning a Challenge isn’t all about skill.”

“Oh, yeah?” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Then what the hell is it about?”

“I’m not sure I can explain, Joe. I’m not sure if it’s even possible for a mortal to understand.” Joe crossed his arms impatiently. Methos sighed. “Look, Joe, I know what it looks like. Two Immortals get together, fight a battle involving swords. It looks like a mortal duel, and so you think that’s what it is. You think that the winner would naturally be the one with the most strength, the most endurance, the most knowledge of strategy and tricks. But in reality, that’s not the way it is at all.”

“No?”

“No.” Methos shook his head. “Joe, the swordplay is just a ritual, just a frame for the real fight. I won’t say it’s not important, because it is. You have to be able to at least hold your own on the physical plane, or you’re beaten before you begin. But the real Challenge, the real test that determines who lives and who dies, takes place somewhere else. In the mind. And in the heart.” Methos looked down at the grass, suddenly feeling very, very old. “In order to truly win against another Immortal you have to have an unshakable belief in both your own invincibility and your right to be the last of our kind. And I’m afraid I lost both of those beliefs a long time ago.”

“Hmmm.” Joe pondered this for a moment. “So you couldn’t beat Kalas. Why offer your head to MacLeod? Why not just run away?”

Methos frowned. He hadn’t thought he’d needed to explain *this*. “Kalas was in my home, Joe,” he said. 

“Yeah? So?”

“He read my old journals, went through all my papers. He knew about the Watchers, found the names and addresses of all my colleagues and friends. He knew about you.” Joe’s eyed widened. “He would have come for you, if he lived. I had to make sure he didn’t live.”

“Jesus Christ.” Joe looked like a man who had just felt the earth quake under his feet. “Did I really mean that much to you? Even when you thought there was a good chance I’d tell your secret to the council?” Methos nodded, feeling oddly embarrassed. Joe drew him into his arms for a hug, then pulled away a little and whacked Methos sharply on the side of the head. “Don’t you ever pull such a stunt again,” he said savagely. “No matter what you think is at stake. I can take care of myself, and if I can’t…well, I’m *supposed* to end up in a grave one of these days. Death is my destiny. It doesn’t have to be yours. Do you understand me? I won’t have you doing anything so stupid ever, ever again. Promise me.”

He gathered him in again. Methos buried his face in the strong shoulder and promised. 

*** 

They went back to Joe’s house for breakfast. Methos cooked, expertly chopping ingredients for omelets while Joe showered. It wasn’t something he usually did. Methos had long ago stopped making the effort to cook an elaborate breakfast just for himself, relying on toast or skipping the meal altogether. But it was nice to have somebody in his life worth making the effort for, and today it just seemed right. He felt oddly peaceful as he sautéed the mushrooms and peppers, listening to the sound of Joe’s shower water muffled by the walls. Perhaps he should be worrying, wondering what to do next, but with the practice of a lifetime he put such thoughts out of his head. One life was over; another was beginning. What ever would happen, would happen. For now he could embrace the uncertainty, this singular moment when there was nothing to plan for and nothing to do. And make omelets. 

Joe entered the kitchen just as Methos was pouring the first batch of egg mixture into the pan. “Good timing,” Methos said cheerfully, noting that Joe looked more bedraggled then refreshed. The mortal’s hair was hanging in haphazard locks, the kind left when one makes only the briefest of attempts at drying it, and he hadn’t bothered to trim his beard. *Hmmm,* Methos thought, and reached for the plate where he’d arranged the fillings. “What do you want in your omelet, Joe? I’ve got just about everything here but rattle snake meat.”

“Rattle snake meat?” The words shocked Joe out of his reverie for only a moment before the distraction settled in again. He sat down at the kitchen table with a distinct air of not being quite in the room. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Cheese and ham will be fine.”

*Uh-oh,* Methos thought, but he calmly added a handful of shredded cheese and another handful of diced ham to the pan. He let it simmer for a moment before swooshing the pan, expertly causing the omelet to fold itself over the filling. He deposited the result on a plate he took from the oven. “There you go,” he said. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

The delicious smell seemed to shake something loose in Joe’s head. He inhaled deeply. “Smells delicious,” he said, half wonderingly, and for the first time fully took in the state of the kitchen. “You had time to do all this while I was in the shower?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised at what I can do with a spare fifteen minutes.” Joe picked up a fork. “Watch your fingers,” Methos warned. “The plate is hot.”

“You warmed the plates?” Joe said, amazed. Methos nodded and watched while Joe took his first bite, gratified to see the mortal’s eyes close in pleasure. “God,” Joe said when he had swallowed. “This is great. Thank you.” Methos nodded his acknowledgment and retreated to the stove, starting on an omelet of his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Joe eat hungrily for a few moments, then lay his fork resolutely aside. His face wore a look of grim determination. “Adam…”

*Double uh-oh. I knew this moment was too peaceful to last.* Methos went on resolutely making his own omelet, filling this one with mushrooms and the rest of the veggies he’d sautéed. “Just a second,” he said as he completed the tricky work of flipping the omelet closed. When the creation was safely finished and deposited on a second warm plate, he carried it to the table. “You do realize that if you say ‘we have to talk’ I’m going to have to kill you,” he said. 

“Uh…” Joe looked startled for a moment, then chuckled. “I have said that an awful lot to you over the years, haven’t I. Damn. All right. I won’t say it. But I will admit that there’s something on my mind.”

Methos nodded and waited, chewing his first mouthful of egg. Mmmm. He really should make breakfast more often. “Adam?” Joe said tentatively. “How serious were you about what you said earlier? That stuff about not having what it really takes to win a Challenge?”

Methos swallowed his mouthful, wondering where Joe was going with all this. “I was very serious, Joe.”

“It really isn’t about being the strongest warrior?”

“No.”

“Huh.” Joe looked thoughtful. “I always wondered about that, you know. Hell, we’ve all wondered, all the Watchers. Why on earth do most of you still bother with the swordplay when it would be so much easier just to shoot your opponent and lop off his head with an axe while he’s down? It makes sense to me now. You really do need to face each other one-on-one. To see who wants it most.”

“There’s a little more to it than that, Joe.” For a moment Methos hesitated, wondering if he should really say what he was about to say. The true story of what happened when two Immortals faced each other was something Watchers had been wondering about for millennia. But Joe had earned the right to know. And it was good to share the secret with someone who would appreciate it. “If you take another Immortal’s head without having the battle, without determining once and for all who has the strongest will, the Quickening is…different. Weaker. Unfocused. Oh, you still get some things, enough power to blow up a small city block, but it isn’t even a tenth of what is there to be had.” Methos took another bite of omelet, chased it with a sip of orange juice. “The Quickening has to know who its boss is if it’s going to be fully absorbed. You have to fight the fight, have to establish yourself as the winner on all levels of the Game: mental, moral, and spiritual as well as physical. Otherwise all you get is that very small part of a person who can be controlled by physical force. The rest disperses and disappears.”

“Huh.” Joe looked both excited and horrified by this revelation. “So why do some Immortals do it the less honorable way? Xavier…”

“I suspect Xavier St. Cloud was more interested in reducing the number of competitors than he was in getting the full benefit of each Quickening,” Methos said calmly. “If he’d lived, I’m sure he would have gone back to the swordplay sooner or later.”

“Why?”

“Because truly winning a Challenge…knowing to the very bottom of your soul that you are stronger than another person and that his entire being is yours for the taking…is a high like nothing else on earth.” Methos shuddered. “It’s very addictive, Joe. Only the best of us succeed in giving it up for any length of time.”

“You did.”

“I’m not sure I gave it up so much as I had it taken from me,” Methos said ruefully. “I already told you, Joe. In order to win you have to truly believe you’re invincible. And I learned I wasn’t a god a very long time back.”

“Yeah.” Joe’s excitement suddenly faded. “That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about.” He looked down at his plate. “Adam, there’s a plane leaving for Paris at 8 o’clock tomorrow morning. I think you should be on it.”

*Well* Methos thought, during the stunned silence that followed. *At least this time I had my pants on before he told me I had to go.* He toyed with the remainder of his omelet, suddenly completely unable to eat another bite. "Thought you said you weren’t going to throw me out again.”

“Throw you out?” Joe looked stunned. “Oh no, god no. Adam, listen to me. Observe and record, all right? The last thing I want—I repeat, the very last thing—is for us to be separated. If I could, I’d have you stay here forever, loving me and drinking my beer and fucking me senseless every night.”

"Then why?”

"Because you’re Immortal, that’s why,” Joe said heavily. “I’ve been trying to ignore that fact for almost a year now. It was easier, when I thought you’d just had your first death. I thought that fate had given us a few years of breathing space, some time for you to find a teacher and train, some time for both of us to live a relatively normal life before people noticed you weren’t aging and we had to move on. But none of that’s true. You’re a full-grown Immortal, deeply involved in the Game--and you’re not just any Immortal, either. You're practically THE Immortal--the one every other Immie most wants to whack. We both know you have the most valuable head in the game. And if Kalas can find you…so can someone else.” Sadly, Methos nodded. It was the simple truth. “I've been wracking my brains trying to come up with a way to keep you safe, and the best I can come up with is to do what you were already doing,” Joe continued. “You know. Hide in the Watchers, use the Chronicles to keep an eye on the competition. And the best way to do that…” Joe looked deeply unhappy… “is to go back to Paris.”

"Joe." Methos interrupted, head spinning. He'd been so sure that his life in Paris was over. The fact that Joe was offering it back to him now seemed like a dream. "*Can* I go back to Paris?”

Joe stared at him, clearly not understanding. Then he swore noisily. "Ah, hell. Of course you can," he said. "You know I didn't turn you in. I was just being stubborn about it last night. As far as the Watchers know, all you are is Adam Pierson. We'll have to do some fast talking to explain why you've been AWOL this week, but we can manage that.” Joe paused, reaching a hand across the table. His face was honest and sincere. "Adam, I give you my word. As long as I'm alive, you will have a safe haven in the Watchers. No one will ever learn the truth from me.”

Very gravely, Methos stood up, chair squeaking away as he pushed it back, and dropped to his knees in front of Joe’s chair. He pulled the mortal’s head forward into a passionate kiss. “Wow,” Joe said dazedly when it was over. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“You know very well,” Methos answered. “If you say things like that, you simply have to expect to face the consequences.” He stood up, held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because now that you know who I really am, I no longer have to pretend that I’m a kid with only one short lifetime's worth of sexual experience. And right now, thanks to you, I am neither tired, nor lonely, nor drunk.” Methos’s voice softened, became an auditory caress. “There are a few things I’ve spent the last eight years dreaming about having the chance to show you, Joe. Come with me.”

Joe’s breath hitched. Adam’s eyes held the promise of a thousand pleasures Joe couldn’t even begin to imagine, pleasures Joe knew would be made transcendent by the love the Immortal so clearly felt for him. Still, he held his ground. “Are you going to go back to Paris?”

“Are you going to visit me there?”

“Every chance I get,” Joe said fervently, and when Methos’s outstretched hand closed around his fingers he chucked ruefully. “I might just have to start another bar.”

“Now that is a truly excellent idea,” Methos said. “But right now I have an even better one.”

He waited while Joe got to his feet. Then they walked into the bedroom together.

**~End First Interlude~**


	4. Adam and Methos

**Adam and Methos**

“Ain’t that a shame,  
Ain’t it a sin?  
We had too much baggage  
When our ship came in…”

~Smashmouth, “New Planet”

  
****  
_~City of Seacouver, September 1995~_  
  
 ****  
 _~Six months later~_  
  


**_From the Private Journal of Joe Dawson_ **

*There’s a certain weirdness to being in love with the World’s Oldest Immortal that I’m only beginning to fully appreciate. And I’m not talking about the obvious things, like the fact that at any moment Adam might have to leave the country or risk having his head cut off. Now that Adam’s gotten comfortable enough around me not to censor every little thing he does and says, I find that it’s the little things that leave me shaking my head, the small stuff that makes wonder if we really can make this work. He says he’s just a normal man, and for the most part that’s true. He’s gotten so good at adapting and fitting in that most of the time I really can believe he is a child of the modern age. But sometimes the mask slips. And then I wonder just what it is I’ve gotten myself into. 

*Like this morning. He surprised me by arriving in Seacouver yesterday to help me celebrate my birthday, which was startling enough. I couldn’t believe it when he walked into the bar, not when I know how dangerous it is for him to be here in the Rainy City. Now that I know he’s too old and tired to truly win a Challenge, and yet too strong to really lose, the stakes are higher than I ever expected. He can’t fight to win, and yet if he loses the chances are good that the Challenger won’t be able to absorb all his essence, that thousands of years of power and memories will be lost. He shouldn’t be here, not where he could run into a hostile Immortal on every corner. But it was so damn good to see him I didn’t argue. Anyway, we had a wonderful night, and this morning Adam got up early to make me waffles. And he cut himself while slicing the strawberries for the topping. 

*Okay, I know how that sounds. No big deal, right? But it wasn’t just a little cut—we’re talking a good six inch gash, with enough blood to furnish a vampire with a good afternoon snack. And all he did was calmly hold his hand over the sink until his skin healed itself—the only thing that worried him was the possibility that the blood might drip into the berries. Perfectly normal behavior if you’re an Immortal, and I suppose I should be used to it by now after all the time I’ve spent Watching MacLeod. But it was the first time I’d ever seen Adam heal from such an everyday accident and I was halfway to the first aid kit before I realized it wasn’t necessary. Do you see what I mean about the weirdness of the situation?

*Then there’s the way he conceals a whole goddamn arsenal of daggers and handguns beneath his coat before he so much as opens the door to get the paper, the way he sometimes says “Good morning” in languages I can’t even begin to identify before he really wakes up and remembers that I speak late 20th century American English, and the outfits he puts together on the rare occasions he doesn’t wear black. It’s not that he’s colorblind, exactly, but his sense of what colors look good together was formed a long time ago in a land far, far away. He’s just got no concept of what we moderns think is aesthetically pleasing. No wonder he usually sticks to black and other neutrals. I’ve started taking a quick look at him whenever we go out just to make sure his shirt and pants don’t clash, god help us both. I’m hardly what you’d call a fashion expert. But I do at least know that you can’t wear an orange tie with a green shirt. And it took me a few months, but I think I finally convinced him that red jeans should only be worn during the Christmas holidays. Not that they didn’t look good on him—sometimes I think Mr. Strauss must have invented the blue jean strictly to show off Adam’s ass—but red? 

*I wonder if Tessa ever had these problems with MacLeod?

*Niels Bohr once said that the opposite of a correct statement is a false one, but the opposite of a Profound Truth is likely to be simply another profound truth. I keep thinking of that whenever Adam tells me he’s ‘just a guy’. It’s true, it really is. He’s more human than anyone else I’ve ever known, with his full compliment of blind spots and arrogance and other human failings. And yet, and yet…

*And yet he makes love to me with a passion that none of my other lovers, male or female, have ever had, and when I’m worried or upset he gives advice that stuns me with its wisdom. I tell myself that this should be all that matters. I’m in love with the man he is now, not the thousands of names and personas he’s had before. But somehow I can’t stop myself from wondering about his past, wishing he would tell me more about it. I know he was in the United States during the late 1800’s, so it’s just barely possible that he did know Levi Strauss, but apart from a few dropped names and dates I really know nothing about who and what he’s been. Whenever I ask him something directly, he either changes the subject or answers with a story that’s so obviously bullshit I start laughing and don’t realize he’s weaseled out of another question until later. Is this because he doesn’t really trust me yet? Are there unconscious prejudices in my 20th century brain that would make it impossible for me to understand? Or is it just too painful for him to talk about all the things that have changed in his life, all the loved ones he must have lost? I don’t know, and I’m afraid to ask. Weird as our relationship may be, it’s also the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t want to do anything to mess it up.

*Yeah, yeah. I know. Cowardice is not the best way to make a relationship last. One of these days we will have to talk about all these things I wonder about, especially the Big Question: namely, why someone who has had the opportunity to see and do things beyond mortal man’s imagining would be interested in *me*. But that can wait. Right now, it’s enough to know that he is. 

*It really is.*

Joe heard the gentle knock on his office door. “Yeah? Come on in.” He capped his pen and slid the thick, leather bound journal he’d been writing in beneath a pile of papers. At the last moment he remembered that he was supposed to be busy looking over the bar’s financial records, and he sprang for the computer. He managed to bring up the appropriate spreadsheet just as Mike, Joe’s relief bartender and Watcher second in command, walked in. He was waving a manila folder. “What’s this?” Joe asked.

“Transfer order,” Mike said. “You need to fill it out and sent it back to Paris.” He dropped the folder on Joe’s desk. It landed atop a truly impressive pile of similar files, causing the whole strata to wobble alarmingly. Mike eyed the pile until the wobble settled down, then shrugged and resumed. “Oh, and Adam Pierson’s here. Said you promised to buy him lunch. Want me to send him in?”

“What? Is it noon already?” Joe looked up at the clock, wondering where the morning had gone. It was really amazing how time flew by whenever he was thinking of Adam. “I guess it is. Yes, please. Send him in. And Mike,” Joe said, when the man had turned and started heading out the door. “Who’s being transferred? I thought HQ decided we weren’t going to get any more staff for a while.”

“We’re not getting new staff,” Mike said sourly. “Unfortunately.” Joe nodded his head in bitter agreement. No matter what Joe said, no matter how much yelling and dancing and waving of spreadsheets he did in front of his superiors, the Watcher Council simply refused to believe just how many people it took to run a bar. Joe had been forced to hire a handful of non-Watcher waitresses and dishwashers to fill in the gaps. “No, the transfer’s for a field agent,” Mike continued. “Stevenson.”

“Stevenson?” Joe frowned. “I thought he was assigned to Kristin.”

“He still is,” Mike replied. “Apparently ruling the runways in Milan and Paris wasn’t enough for The Black Widow. She’s starting a branch of her modeling agency here in Seacouver.” Mike nodded at the folder on Joe’s desk. “Stevenson will need some place to stay while he’s looking for an apartment. Want me to call the Four Seasons?”

“Yeah, that would be good,” Joe said absently. “Just remind him that he can’t stay there for more than a week or so, no matter how good the room service is. Our expense account is not bottomless.” He looked down at the form, at the neatly typed paragraph that described Kristin’s recent movements and the necessity for Stevenson’s reassignment. It all looked so ordinary and official set out in the tidy black typing, simply another report, nothing to worry about at all. Nonetheless, Joe could not look at it without feeling an intense sinking sensation in his gut. Damn. Of all the Immortals who had to move into his town! Especially now…

Mike looked at him sympathetically. He was a good second in command; he could pretty much read Joe’s work-related thoughts without trying. “MacLeod has quite a history with Kristin, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he sure does.” Joe ran his hands agitatedly through his hair. Just how he was going to deal with this? A few months ago it would have been simple. He would have waited for the Highlander to come by for a drink, casually worked Kristin’s arrival into the conversation, and waited for MacLeod to decide what to do. But now…so soon after Charlie Desalvo’s death, so soon after Cord’s beheading, there was no way Joe could say *anything* without getting a cold look and a door slammed in his face. Joe swallowed, trying to banish the sadness he felt at the thought. “Is there anything else happening that I should know about?”

“Ummm…let me think. Oh, yeah. Alexa called. She’s not going to be able to come in again tonight.” Joe snapped up his head, concerned. Mike held up his hands. “No, no, don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. They just rescheduled her latest CT scan, that’s all. She says she’ll be glad to work Saturday afternoon to make up for it.” Joe nodded. “Other than that, the only thing of note today is the fact that we need to double the beer order for next week. For some reason, we’ve been going through a lot more than usual the last few days.”

“Gee. That’s strange. I wonder why?” Joe said, with so much faultless sincerity that Mike didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. “Thanks for the heads up, Mike. I’ll call the distributor today.”

“No problem. I’ll tell Pierson he can come in.”

A few moments later Adam appeared, resplendent in a well-worn pair of jeans (blue ones) and a cream sweater. He closed the door carefully behind him and then placed both hands on Joe’s shoulders, bending down to kiss him a warm hello. “Hey you,” he said. 

“Hey yourself,” Joe returned. He gave himself just a moment to admire the beautiful body in front of him, to enjoy the sparkle in Adam’s eyes. “Did you have a good morning?”

“Very good indeed,” Adam said, sitting down happily on the corner of Joe’s desk. His long legs stretched out in front of him, and Joe wondered anew just how it was that Adam could make the simplest of postures look like an invitation to take him to bed. “I’d forgotten just how much fun an old fashioned ferry ride could be.”

Joe pictured Adam in the prow of one of the many Seacouver ferries, staring out at the water while the wind tousled his hair. It was a delightful mental image, and Joe looked at the office in true regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you.”

“No problem,” Adam said, with one of the trademark smiles that always melted Joe’s heart. “It’s my own fault for deciding it was better to surprise you for your birthday instead of calling ahead and telling you I was coming. I should have known you’d have to work.” Joe nodded, casting an unhappy eye over the mountain of paperwork that he should have been working on instead of writing in his journal. One more transfer order and it would reach the avalanche stage. “Buuutt,” Adam drawled, “even the busiest Watcher deserves a break every now and then. Are we still on for lunch? I think you promised me Italian.”

“I did, didn’t I.” Joe smiled. He really couldn’t come up with anything better than the combination of Adam’s company, his favorite restaurant’s eggplant parmesan, and a bottle of good wine. Well, not unless you threw in a couple hours of mind-blowing sex into the bargain. But given that mountain of paperwork, the sex would have to wait. At least until later in the day. Joe started the laborious process of getting to his feet. “Give me a couple minutes to finish up, and we can go.”

“No problem. I’ll wait for you in the bar,” Adam said. He paused with his door on the doorknob. “Oh, and Joe?”

“Yeah?”

Adam nodded his handsome head at the desk, where just the corner of Joe’s diary was showing. “You probably want to put your journal back inside the safe before you leave. It wouldn’t do for the help to discover it.”

“I was going to…” Joe frowned. “How the hell do you know about that? I never told you I was keeping a private journal.”

“Joe-oe.” It was Adam’s exasperated voice. “You’re a Watcher. ‘Observe and Record’ is trained into every cell of your body. Here you are, with a unique opportunity to observe Immortal life…and there’s nobody you can tell about it, nobody you can confide in. It’s bad enough that you can’t tell anyone we’re involved romantically. It’s got to be secretly killing you not to be able to talk about who I really am.” He shrugged. “Of course you’re keeping a journal. You need an outlet. I understand.”

“Huh.” Joe stared at his lover, once again startled by Adam’s incredibly vast knowledge of human nature, his easy acceptance of things Joe could just barely begin to understand. “When did you get so smart?”

“Oh, somewhere around 2,000 B.C. I was a terribly late bloomer.” Joe snorted. Adam grinned back. “No, all right. It was probably right about the time I started keeping my own journal. For much the same reasons.”

“Hmmm.” Joe had always assumed Adam had started keeping his journals in an attempt to keep himself from forgetting more of his past than he already had. The thought that Adam, too, had needed an outlet for those things he’d been forced to keep secret had never occurred to him. Joe filed this piece of information away for future thought and picked up a pen. “Just give me a few more minutes and we’ll go. I’ve got to get this form filled out…you know what Watcher paperwork is like. If I get too much more behind, my desk might just collapse under the weight.”

“Yes,” Adam agreed, deadpan. “Isn’t it lucky that we no longer use clay tablets?”

“Smartass.” Joe tossed a crumpled purchase order at him. Adam just grinned and ducked, heading out the door. “And stay away from my beer taps!” Joe called after him. “We’re running low, and I won’t be able get another delivery until the end of the week.”

Adam’s only response was a decidedly evil chuckle, echoing along the hall to the office. Joe shook his head and got to work.

***

Approximately one hour later, Joe and Methos were sitting at a quiet table in Seacouver’s best Italian restaurant. Two steaming plates of eggplant parmesan, two glasses of very excellent cabernet sauvignon, and one bottle of beer (“Since you won’t let me drink any more of the bar’s until the new shipment comes in…”) were arrayed on the table in front of them. J.C., the restaurant’s owner and chef, was singing happily as he worked in the kitchen, his extraordinarily loud-but-shaky tenor warbling a medley of Sarah McLachlan songs that rang through the entire restaurant. The waitress came by to check on them just as J.C. hit a particularly bad high note. She winced. “Sorry about that,” she said under her breath. “We keep trying to get him to stop.”

“It’s all right,” Methos reassured, as yet another chorus of “Sweeeeeeet! Sweet Surrender” wafted over the tables. “I always appreciate a bit of entertainment with my lunch.”

“I wish everyone did,” the waitress said ruefully, waving her water pitcher at an elderly couple near the door. The couple wore perfectly matched expressions of pained incredulity. “Our regulars all know this is just the way J.C. is, and it’s true that when he’s singing the food does come out tasting better. But the newcomers sometimes get chased away.”

“Their loss,” Methos said emphatically. Joe had promised him Publeo’s would have the best eggplant parmesan he’d ever tasted, and rather amazingly, it was true. Methos wasn’t about to argue with the musical accompaniment. “True creative geniuses, which your boss undoubtedly is, often have their own way of doing things. Only a Philistine would dare to complain. Isn’t that true, Joe?” Joe, who was idly twirling a few strands of spaghetti around his fork, didn’t answer. “Joe?” Methos tried waving his hand in front of the other man. The waitress smirked and moved away. “Earth to Joe. Come in, Joe.”

“Hmmm, what? Oh, yeah. Of course. Anything you say, Adam.”

The response was made on complete auto pilot. Methos could tell that Joe didn’t have a clue what he’d just agreed to. For a moment he considered saying something like “Great! I’ll have the mud pit installed this afternoon, then,” but his better nature stopped him. Joe was always fun to tease, but not when he was this distracted. “Want to talk about it?” Methos asked sympathetically.

Joe blinked. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s sending you into outer space instead of enjoying your lunch with me.”

“I wasn’t—“ Joe looked across the table, really seeing Methos for the first time since they’d sat down. “Damn. I guess I was.” He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Adam. I haven’t been the best of companions this trip, have I? Apart from my birthday, we really haven’t gotten to spend much time together. I’ve been so busy with work…”

“It’s all right. I already told you it’s my fault for just showing up without warning. I know the bar is keeping you busy.” Methos gave Joe a tiny smile. “Believe it or not, this is a good sign.”

“It is?”

“It is.” Methos nodded, aware that he was about to sound like a total know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass and not minding it in the slightest. “Means we’ve been together long enough for the bloom to start rubbing off.” He waited for Joe’s baffled expression to change to one of surprise--*yup, one know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass moment coming up*--and then he started using his best college professor voice, the one that had bored thousands of unlucky undergrads to tears. “You know the drill. All relationships go through phases. Clearly we’ve gotten past that annoying, infatuated, can’t-spend-a-minute-apart beginning phase, and are now at that more mature stage where real life once again demands its due. It really is a good thing, Joe. We’re progressing right along schedule. Why, if this keeps up, we’ll be taking each other for granted by Christmas. I—oomph—”

The rest of his speech was cut off by Joe abruptly standing up, seizing Methos by the collar, and pulling him across the table for a searing kiss. Methos froze, his hyper-aware senses as always searching the crowd for signs of homophobic danger. But the only reaction was a brief pause, followed by a few catcalls and cheers from the waitresses. J.C. began a spontaneous rendition of “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine.” Methos allowed himself to thaw and reciprocated the kiss, adding a flourish that made Joe shudder just before he pulled away. “I have NOT been taking you for granted,” Joe said.

“No,” Methos agreed. “You haven’t. You never have.” They simply stood there for a moment, looking at each other across the table. Joe became rather flushed when he realized the number of stares—all benevolent, thank god—coming from the staff and other patrons, but he didn’t let his embarrassment cause his eyes to waver from Methos’s face, something that touched Methos deeply. The old Immortal sighed and sat down, reaching under the table to lightly touch Joe’s thigh when the mortal sat down as well. “But we are having problems,” Methos said softly. “Aren’t we?”

“Not *us*,” Joe said, with savage emphasis. “Just me.” He picked at his plate, moving sauce and breading around as fastidiously as if the meal had suddenly become covered in ants. “Have you ever heard of an Immortal called Kristin?”

*Oh, dear. I knew things had been too peaceful to last.* “What Watcher hasn’t?” Methos answered. Over the last few months, Kristin had become one of the most notorious Immortals in the game: partly because of the fatal ruthlessness with which she treated her mortal coworkers, and partly because she had recently succeeded in taking the head of her ex-lover Eric Scott, an Immortal who had been one of the best fighters in the Game. Having Joe mention Kristin now could not mean anything good. “I take it the Immortal population of Seacouver has increased by one, then?” Methos asked.

“She’s opening up a branch of her modeling agency here.”

“I see.” Methos let this news sink in for a moment, then cocked his head curiously. “Who are you more worried about, then? MacLeod or Stevenson?”

Joe frowned. “Stevenson?” he asked, clearly confused. “Why should I worry about him?”

“He has been transferred to Seacouver, right? He’s still Kristin’s Watcher?” Joe nodded, still not following. “Didn’t think the Council would be smart enough to give the man a break,” Methos said sourly. “Look, Joe, you really need to keep an eye on him. Rumor has it that he’s very close to burning out. He took that last little problem with the Parisian models a little *too* well, if you know what I mean.”

“Parisian models?”

“You don’t know the story?” Joe shook his head. “I guess the gossip didn’t make it Seacouver, then. For a while all the Watchers in Paris were talking about it; you couldn’t pass a water cooler without someone bringing it up.” Methos’s face became grim. “When Kristin decided to close up shop in Paris, she held a little going away party for her “special” girls—you know, the ones that didn’t want to move with her to Milan. The main course was poisoned champagne. Five women died, all young, all with their entire lives ahead of them. Kristin had her bodyguard dismember the bodies and dispose of them in garbage dumpsters throughout the city.”

Joe looked horrified. “And Stevenson witnessed this?”

“Yup. Saw the whole thing from beginning to end. Saw her slip the drugs into the champagne, knew exactly what she intended to do.”

“And he…?” Joe let the question hang.

“He was a good Watcher, Joe. True to his oath. He didn’t interfere.” Joe nodded painfully. Methos gave a bitter shrug. “Stevenson just Watched and filed his report with a minimum of fuss. The higher-ups even offered him a commendation, stupid bastards. What the man *needed* was a six month vacation and then a long appointment behind a desk. But it’s hard to find a Watcher who will stick with an Immortal like Kristin, especially under those conditions. So of course he’s still assigned to her.” Methos looked at Joe earnestly. “Keep an eye on him, Joe. To all outward appearances he’s fine—I ran into him a few weeks ago and he was clean-shaven and polite. That was the problem. He was *too* polite, mouthing all the social pleasantries while still managing to say nothing. There’s a brittleness inside that’s just waiting to snap.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Joe promised. “If I see anything suspicious, I’ll be sure to get him some relief fast.”

“Good.” Methos picked up a dinner roll, expertly smearing the surface with butter. “So. Now tell me why you’re worried about MacLeod.”

“I never said I…” 

Joe looked into his lover’s knowing eyes and sighed. All right, so sometimes Adam’s vast knowledge of human nature was a good thing, and sometimes it was just a pain in the ass. In this case, though, Joe reluctantly had to admit that it was more on the “good thing” side of the scale. He *did* need to talk about his worries to someone. And Adam was pretty much the only one in his life who could understand. “It’s pretty simple, really. You know what Kristin’s like, the history she has with Mac. If she stumbles across him somewhere, she’ll go for his head. Again.”

“So? MacLeod’s a big boy, Joe. I think he can take care of himself.”

Joe shook his head. “That’s just it, Adam. Kristin gets under Mac’s skin in a way no other Immortal ever has. They’ve met up twice since Kristin killed Lydia Barstow in 1660. Each time it came to swords. Each time, Mac won. And each time, he let Kristin walk away. For some reason he just can’t bring himself to take her head, finish it for good. I’m really worried that one of these days, she’ll get lucky. Just like she did against Scott.” Adam frowned thoughtfully, but Joe noticed that he didn’t disagree. “It would be easier if I could just tell Mac Kristin is in town,” Joe continued. “Give him some kind of warning, let him know what’s coming. But I can’t.”

“I see. Still being stubborn, is he?”

If anyone else had said those words, they would have been flippant. From Adam they were just sympathetic, and tinged with a sadness that Joe didn’t entirely understand. “Yeah,” Joe answered gruffly. “He is. I thought it would get better after Simon Killian, after I helped Amanda free him from that hell hole the good Colonel rigged up. But it’s still…strained.” Joe looked down at the table, not really seeing the bright checkered cloth. “Maybe Mac’s right. Maybe, as a Watcher, I really don’t have any business being an Immortal’s friend. Maybe I should just let him go.”

“Is that what you really think, Joe?”

Too late Joe realized what he’d said. He stretched his hand across the table as a kind of peace offering, and was very relieved when Adam took it. “No. Of course not,” Joe said feelingly. “But loving you hasn’t gotten me into quite the same trouble that befriending Mac has. It does help that you’re a Watcher too, you know. The same conflicts just don’t come up.”

*Not yet, anyway,* Methos thought bleakly. He cleared his throat. “Well, for my part, I think MacLeod’s barking mad for turning his back on you,” he said. Joe squeezed his hand, appreciation plain. “But,” Methos continued, “a bit of madness is only to be expected. From what you’ve said, Charlie DeSalvo was a very good friend of MacLeod’s, the one who gave him a place to live and a new purpose in life after Ms. Noel passed away. He probably needs to blame someone for his death. You just happen to be the most convenient candidate.”

Guilt flared in Joe’s heart, for a moment so painful that Joe couldn’t breath. “Not just the most convenient,” he said. “The one responsible. If I had just realized what Cord had become in time…if I hadn’t tried so hard to save him…”

“No,” Adam said quietly. And he said “No” again when Joe would have argued, with so much firmness that Joe had to believe. Once again Joe looked deep into the knowing hazel eyes, and suddenly Joe was remembering a similar conversation they’d once had, roles reversed but with the same levels of pain. “Of course it matters to me when good friends die. Especially when they die because of me.” “You didn’t kill Don! Kalas did that.” “Doesn’t mean I won’t keep thinking it anyway…” Funny. Joe had never really wanted to know what it felt like to be on the other side of that exchange. But now that he was, it was strangely comforting to know Adam had been there first. 

Adam’s hand lifted, lightly brushed a thumb over Joe’s cheek. “Are we done here?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Suddenly the mass of eggplant and cheese still remaining on Joe’s plate was the least appetizing thing in the world. He un-tucked his napkin and dropped it on the table with a sigh. “Yeah, we’re done. Let’s go home.” 

Adam raised his eyebrows. “Home?” he asked. “Not back to the bar?”

“Well, it’s not like the word doesn’t really apply to both places these days, but yeah. I meant home-home, not work-home. The paperwork can wait.” Despite the heaviness in his heart, Joe managed to pull up a half-hearted grin. “After all, I hear my boyfriend’s in town. I’ve got more important things to do.”

The happy expression that crossed Adam’s face upon being referred to by that ridiculous word was a wonder to behold. “Boyfriend?” he repeated.

“Yup.” Joe refused to be apologetic. He did his best to summon up a knowing leer. “And guess what? Doing the boyfriend is at the top of my list.”

“Right. Yes. Good. Sounds like a plan to me.” Adam hurriedly pulled some bills from his wallet, enough to cover both the meal and a generous tip. As he pulled back from tucking the money under a wineglass he suddenly sobered. “Joe,” he said, absolute certainty in his voice. “MacLeod will come around. He just needs time.”

*Ah, but Adam, time isn’t the same inexhaustible resource for me that it is for the two of you,* Joe thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. There was no point in reminding Adam of the differences between them; that was one tragedy it was best not to dwell on. Instead he asked with every semblance of calm: “How much time?”

“Not long. You’re much too special to stay away from for long.”

Joe found himself smiling. The pain wasn’t completely banished. But it was now living alongside happiness in a way that Joe didn’t want to analyze too closely, for fear it would go away. “Let’s go home.”

***

Several hours later, an extremely rumpled, tired, boxer-and-robe clad Methos made his way out of Joe’s bedroom, sauntering through the familiar clutter of instruments and books in Joe’s living room to reach the kitchen, the refrigerator, and the case of specialty microbrew Joe had bought him on the way home. Back in the bedroom, an equally rumpled and tired Joe Dawson was happily snoring away. As he grabbed a beer and flicked off the cap, Methos decided he would let the younger man sleep for a few hours before he woke him up for dinner. Heaven knew, Joe had certainly earned the rest...

Funny, how the sex kept getting better. Every time he and Joe met they learned a little more about each other, discovered new pleasure spots and new ways to utilize them, became a little larger part of each other’s hearts and soul. This had been true even when Methos had still been resolutely Adam Pierson in the bedroom. Now that Methos was free to be his whole self, their lovemaking had rapidly become extraordinary. Joe always refused to believe him when Methos told him he was the best lover he’d ever had, but it was true nonetheless. And Methos had never quite gotten over just how lucky he was that this was so.

It could have been so easy to lose. Methos vividly remembered the first time he’d made love to Joe as himself, immediately after Don’s death. He’d led Joe into the bedroom and kissed him the way Young Adam would have, all gentleness and wonder and tender love. Then he’d sat Joe down on the bed and taken off his clothes, carefully removing Adam Pierson at the same time. He’d let his posture straighten and his muscles tighten, his motions become powerful and carefully controlled, his eyes fill with a hunger Young Adam would never have dared to show. Joe had known the difference at once. He’d taken in an involuntary breath as he drank in the lines of Methos’s body, staring at the muscles the millennia had honed as if he’d never seen them before. In a very real way, he never had. “God,” he’d breathed. “You really are old, aren’t you.”

“Older than you can possible imagine,” Methos had answered. Joe had nodded, not meeting his eyes. For a moment Methos had felt a terrible fear. “Does…does that frighten you, Joe?”

“A little,” Joe had admitted gruffly. “Mostly because it seems like an awful lot for someone like me to live up to. And also because it feels like you’ve suddenly turned into a stranger.” Joe had swallowed anxiously. “I loved Adam Pierson a lot, Ad…Methos, I mean Methos. Is he still in there somewhere?”

The vulnerability in the question had gone to the very center of Methos’s soul. It had been very hard to speak clearly. “The part that fell in love with you still is,” he’d said shakily. “Let me show you. Please?”

And Joe had nodded, and a short while later Methos had experienced the incredible sweetness of hearing Joe cry out “Methos! Methos!” as he came. The sound had triggered his own climax, and a little while later Joe had been forced to hold him when Methos couldn’t stop crying. “It’s all right,” Joe had crooned into Methos’s ear, naturally assuming that Methos was still mourning for Don. “Don would have wanted us to be happy. He really would…” Methos’s tears had fallen twice as fast. He’d known there was no way he could ever explain to Joe what he was really feeling. How could he even begin to explain how something as simple as hearing a lover call out his true name had undone him, how sure he’d been that he’d never hear that sound again? It was impossible. All he could was cry. 

After that night, Joe had gone back to calling him Adam even when they were in private, something Methos heartily approved of. It meant there was much less chance of dangerous public slip-ups, less possibility that the name “Methos” would be heard by the wrong ears. Still, that single time that Methos had heard his true name shaped by Joe’s lips lingered in his memory with all the power the moment deserved. The memory had become Methos’s talisman during those times when the true oddity of his existence became glaringly obvious, and Joe would look at him in confusion; it told Methos that despite his private fears, Joe really had accepted him. Cherished him. No matter what.

Or at least, that’s what he liked to think... 

Methos took his beer into Joe’s living room and sat down on the couch, haunted by doubts that simply wouldn’t go away. He looked up at the mantelpiece. There, tucked amongst a clutter of pictures of Lynn, Cousin Margie’s growing family, and the yellowing snapshots of Joe’s parents, was possibly the most precious artifact of Methos’s last hundred years: a photo of Methos and Don Salzer in softball uniforms, smiling at the camera after the Research Team’s most recent defeat. The picture was badly damaged, rumpled and bent, and yet Joe had carefully displayed it in a heavy silver frame that was worth ten times more than any other frame on the mantle. Methos’s heart had almost stopped the first time he’d entered Joe’s living room and seen it there. He’d walked toward the frame like a zombie, reaching out to touch the glass with reverent fingers. “Oh,” Joe had said softly. “So you found that. I guess I should have asked you if it was all right for me to take it. But I didn’t just want to leave it lying around, and…”

“I went back, you know,” Methos had answered, still staring at the picture. “After Christine died, I went back to Shakespeare and Co., just to find this. When I got there, the frame was on the floor with the glass broken, and the picture was missing. I thought for sure that Christine had destroyed it.” He’d swallowed hard and looked at Joe, shrugging his shoulders at the painful memory. “She thought I was the enemy, after all. No reason to keep pictures of the enemy.”

“She may have been going to,” Joe had answered in an even quieter voice, as if he’d known that the words would hurt terribly, but respected Methos too much to lie. “I think finding the Immortal Database might have distracted her. Don had hidden the CD behind the photo.” Methos had closed his eyes, the knowledge of where Don had hidden the disk—a place only Methos should have ever looked—hitting him like a ton of bricks. “Do you mind? That I took it?” Joe had asked anxiously. “I know I should have asked you first. I just…I really didn’t want you to say no.”

This had brought a faint smile to Methos’s lips. *It’s always easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.* “No. I don’t mind,” he’d said aloud. “It seems to belong here.”

Joe had looked so happy that Methos had almost forgotten the terrible risk he was taking, allowing the photo to remain in someone else’s hands. Of course, he’d already taken a similar risk when he’d allowed the picture to be taken in the first place. Christine had been trying to get him to pose for a photo for years; the gleam in her eyes when she’d cornered him and Don after that softball game would have cowed much greater men. Methos could still remember the moment when he’d fully realized that he could not get out of the photo gracefully. He even more clearly remembered the next moment when he’d realized that he really didn’t want to. He’d loved Don enough to give him this, the only photo he’d allowed to be taken of himself in more than 80 years. In the years that followed, he’d always stared in fascination at himself whenever he saw the photo on Don’s desk: partly because of the sheer novelty of seeing himself in print, and partly because of the expression on his face. The picture had captured both his deep affection for Don and the way Methos had laughed at himself for doing something so extraordinarily counter-survival. Christine had caught more than she knew…

Now, sitting on Joe’s couch in his boxers with his beer in his hand, Methos stared at the photo again, this time wondering what Joe saw whenever he walked by this mantle. Did Joe know how special Don had been to him, how loved? Had Joe ever guessed just how much of Adam Pierson’s personality Methos had created just to please Don, to become the kind of protégé Don would be proud to claim? No. Of course not. When Joe looked at this picture, he just saw Adam Pierson. And that was where all the problems lay. 

Because they were having problems. They were subtle as yet, but they were subtle in the same way that the first trickle of water through a dyke is subtle. Methos hadn’t missed the look of wary appraisal on Joe’s face that morning when he’d cut his hand. It was an expression he’d seen a lot lately, whenever he did something even remotely out of young Adam’s character. It was clearly starting to dawn on Joe that Methos and Adam Pierson were not one in the same. Whether he knew it consciously or not, Joe was beginning to wonder just who he’d really fallen in love with. And the unspoken question was hurting them both.

Oh, part of it was his own fault. Methos had been terribly reticent about talking about his past. He knew that opening up would have helped, would have given Joe a window into knowing the real him. It was just that his survivor’s mind insisted that if Joe couldn’t handle a simple thing like his fingers miraculously healing when he cut them, there was no way he could handle the fact that he’d been married 68 times, let alone some of the bigger bombshells that lurked in his past. And Christine’s recent rejection had made Methos wonder if it was only a matter of time until Joe came to his senses and saw him as she had, as a monster who should be destroyed. So they’d reached a kind of stalemate: Joe wondering, Methos waiting, and neither saying what they really meant. It was not a good state of affairs. But for the life of him, Methos couldn’t figure what else to do. 

He sighed as he finished off the beer, twisting the empty bottle in his hands. Well, he would simply have to fall back on the strategy that had gotten him through so many other situations where he could see no other option: namely, do nothing. Perhaps in time a solution would present itself. In the meantime, lying in the next room was a man who knew his real name; a man who was badly overworked and badly grieving for his lost friends and who would welcome Methos into his bed with open arms. However temporary that welcome turned out to be, Methos knew its presence now was a gift too great to spoil with brooding. He got to his feet, put his empty beer bottle in the recycling bin under the sink, and headed back into the bedroom. If Joe was awake, he’d make love to him one more time before they had to leave for dinner. If he was still asleep, Methos would simply slip under the covers and snuggle into Joe’s side until he was. Either way, the future could wait. 

At least for tonight.

***

Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

Joe woke up to the a very repetitive sound, one that jarred him out of the first sound sleep he’d had for weeks. *Immortal sex,* he thought happily, looking over to where Adam’s spiky, tousled morning hair was just barely sticking out from under the covers. *Better than any sleeping pill. I have got to take a vacation more often.* Adam shifted sleepily, also woken by the sound. He grumbled good naturedly as he rolled over, pulling the covers still higher over his ears. “Damn alarm clocks,” Adam murmured, voice muffled by blanket and sleepiness. “The most evil invention of a very evil century. Better hit the snooze button, Joe. Unless you want to me to try taking its head.”

The thought of a half-asleep Adam decapitating his alarm clock made Joe chuckle. “That’s something I’d pay to see,” he said. “But I’m afraid it won’t work. It’s not the alarm clock that’s ringing, Adam. It’s the telephone.”

“Just as bad,” Adam mumbled. “I knew I should’ve taken Alex Bell’s head when I had a chance. Saved the world from a plague of telemarketers…hate it when they call in the middle of dinner…” The phone rang again. Joe paused in mid-reach to stare at his lover-- *Alex Bell? Does he mean Alexander Graham Bell? Alexander Graham Bell was Immortal?* but Adam appeared to have already gone back to sleep. Joe shook his head and picked up the receiver. “Dawson here.”

Methos listened with half an ear as Joe held a short conversation, saying little, mostly listening to whoever was on the other end. “Yeah. Yeah,” Joe said at last. “No, I had no idea they’d even crossed paths. What? No, not at all. Of course I don’t mind you calling me at home. Thanks for calling, Williams. Goodbye.” Joe hung up. Methos waited for him to lie back down and start the traditional early-morning cuddling they always did before one or the other of them finally woke up enough to haul himself out of bed and start making breakfast. When he didn’t, Methos groggily cracked open one eye. “Who was that?”

“Richie Ryan’s Watcher.” Joe was strapping on his legs. He got to his feet and started reaching for his clothes. “Richie spent the night at Kristin’s place.”

Still half asleep, the first thought that went through Methos’s head was: *Richie who?* The second thought was: *Oh, yes, MacLeod’s young student. Well, well, what do you know. Kristin usually goes for the tall, dark and broody types; I never would have thought the kid had it in him. Too bad he doesn’t have much longer to live, it’ll be quite a ride while it lasts.* The third thought was a strange combination of * MacLeod’s student…not long to live…oh, no. This does not bid well for a peaceful morning in bed with Joe. Damn, I knew I should have sent Joe tickets to Paris for his birthday instead of coming here myself.* And by the time he’d gotten around to a fourth thought Methos’s eyes were open enough to see Joe’s ashen face, and he was finally awake enough to remember just how often Joe had spoken of Richie in the past, expressing some concern over his training or pleasure in his accomplishments with all the pride of a surrogate father. *Oh, damn. The kid means just as much to Joe as MacLeod. So much for breakfast in bed.* Methos groaned and reached for his pants.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Relax, Joe. I’m just going into the kitchen for some coffee. Something tells me that we’re both going to want some caffeine in our systems before we start the day.” Methos frowned, fingers halfway through zipping up his fly. “Why? Where did you think I was going?”

“I was hoping you were going to go have a talk with MacLeod.”

“Uh-huh.” One of the problems with being five thousand years old was that he’d learned too many languages to always be sure of which one he was currently using. Perhaps Joe had said something that made perfect sense in English, and Methos’s brain was insisting on interpreting it as if he was speaking Sumerian instead. He replayed the patterns of sounds…no. Drat. “And just why, exactly, would I want to do that?”

“To tell him about Kristin and Richie, of course.”

“I see.” Methos nodded slowly, a vamping gesture that had bought him a great deal of time over the years. “And I would want to tell MacLeod his student is sleeping with his former lover because…?”

“Because Richie’s in great danger, that’s why!” Joe looked at Methos in frank disbelief. “Adam, you know it’s true. Whenever Kristin picks up a young Immortal like Richie, that Immortal only stays alive for the amount of time that he can convincingly make Kristin believe she’s god. Do you really think Richard Ryan has the kind of personality that would make that possible for more than a day? Maybe two or three at the most?”

“No.” This was an easy answer. From what Methos had read of the young Immortal in Joe’s reports, Richie was not the sort of youngster who would willingly play second fiddle to anyone. Why, the kid’s arguments with his own teacher had rapidly become the stuff of Watcher legend. “Sooner or later she’ll do something he doesn’t like, and he’ll try to walk away. Probably with several choice words in the bargain. Young Mr. Ryan is not the sort to let himself be walked over by anyone.”

“Exactly,” Joe nodded. “Sooner or later he’ll try to get free, and she’ll strike. You know she will, Adam.” Methos nodded slowly, unable to argue. “Adam?”

“Joe, what do you want me to say? You’re right, of course. Richie is in grave, grave danger.” Methos sighed. “But there are some mistakes a young person simply has to make for himself.”

“Even if it gets him killed?”

“Even if,” Methos said evenly. Joe turned away, clearly upset. Methos decided to try another tack. “Joe,” he said. “Over the last five thousand years I have learned there are three relationships a man should never meddle in. The first is the relationship between a husband and wife. The second is the relationship between a mother and her child. And the third is the relationship between an Immortal and his student. Anyone who sticks his nose into any of them is just asking for trouble.”

“Trouble.” Joe was nodding now, but not in an understanding or vamping kind of way. Instead, the motion was bouncy, rough, filled with anger just barely being restrained. “So you’d let Richie die just to save yourself some *trouble*?”

“I haven’t lived as long as I have by taking unnecessary risks, no.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Another round of the rather terrifying nodding. “And I suppose it wasn’t a risk when you came after me that night I shot Horton? Or how about that time you cut your hand open in front of Christine?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You and Christine were mortal.”

Methos regretted the words the moment they were said. He knew how arrogant they sounded, how belittling. But they were out, and there was nothing he could to do pull them back. “Oh. I see,” Joe said icily, crossing his arms over his chest. “So we’re back to that, are we?”

“Back to what?”

“The same old story. ‘We’re Immortal, Joe.’ ‘It’s different for us, Joe.’ ‘You can’t possibly understand what it’s really like, Joe.’ Fuck!” Joe suddenly exploded, kicking a pile of clothes and sending them flying across the room. Methos’s eyes narrowed when he realized they were *his* clothes, his favorite shirt and best pair of shoes. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that Joe probably hadn’t done it on purpose; most likely Joe was just lashing out at whatever objects had been closest at hand. Then again… “I goddamn risk my life breaking my Watcher oath for you people, and all I ever get from any of you is that I can’t possibly understand,” Joe said savagely. “MacLeod’s perfectly willing to come to me any time he needs information from the Chronicles, but the first time I ask him to walk away from a fight with a friend of mine he tells me he’s Immortal and he has no other choice. Richie smirks and tells me not to worry when Mac is clearly losing his mind, again because ‘there are things about being 400 years old’ that I’m just too young and stupid to comprehend. Even Amanda practically pats me on the head every time she comes into the bar, seeing as how I’m so damn cute and puppy-like and below the comprehension of you great Immortal beings. Well, I ask you, Adam. If there are SO MANY incredible things about being Immortal that I can’t understand, than why the hell don’t any of you ever sit down with me and try to explain them?” He blinked, and Methos realized suddenly that, sometime during the tirade, Joe had started to cry. “I’m not an idiot, Adam. I do try. I just…I just don’t get it.”

No, Methos thought, Joe didn’t get it. He would never understand why a theoretical threat to Methos’s survival outweighed a much-more-than theoretical threat to the life of a young man Joe loved like a son. “Joe,” Methos said helplessly, and stopped. What more could he say?

“I’m waiting, Adam.” When Methos continued to stay silent, Joe sighed. “Oh. My mistake. I guess there’s nothing more you can say to explain, is there? Nothing this limited mortal mind can grasp.” He sat back down on the bed, his back pointedly turned. Methos started to cross the room, to put his hands on Joe’s shoulders, but the next words stopped him in his tracks. “Maybe you should get out of here for a while. I have some thinking to do.”

It was like being doused in cold water. “Thinking,” Methos repeated. Joe nodded, still facing the wall. “This ‘going away for a while’ so you can do it,” Methos said. “Do you mean ‘go find somewhere else to eat breakfast and we’ll talk this afternoon?’ Or do you mean ‘go back to Paris and maybe I’ll call you in a few weeks?’”

The broad, strong back was unmoving. “You do what you think best, Adam.”

The cold, matter of fact tone chilled Methos’s body further…and then suddenly the chill was replaced by an angry fire, threatening to consume everything in its path. “Right,” Methos said, and then “Right” again as he marched to Joe’s closet and retrieved the duffle bag he’d brought from Paris. At least he’d packed light for this trip. He closed the closet doors with much more force than was really necessary, causing the elderly door wheels to squeal in protest along their track, but if the sound bothered Joe he made no sign. Methos packed quickly and dressed even quicker, retrieving his abused shirt and shoes with as much dignity as he could muster. Then he got his coat, pausing to take one final look at the man still sitting immobile on the bed. He expected Joe to say something, to do something to stop him, but Joe did not. And Methos left the house.

Outside it was actually a nice day for once, morning sunshine penetrating the typical Seacouver haze, but Methos paid no attention as he tramped along the streets. He hadn’t bothered to rent a car of his own this trip, since he’d thought that he and Joe would be spending most of their time horizontally, indoors. Well, so much for that little plan. Methos walked sullenly, angry with himself, angry with Joe…and especially angry with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who Methos blamed for the whole damn mess. He and Joe would never have had this argument at all if MacLeod had just realized Joe’s friendship was more important than the Challenge from Cord, thereby leaving Joe free to do his own interfering in the Highlander’s life. And they certainly wouldn’t have had it if MacLeod had trained Ryan better. Why, the kid practically had a “Horny Young Immortal Idiot—Take Advantage Of Me, Please?” sign pasted to his forehead. It was amazing something like Kristin hadn’t happened to boy long ago. God! Methos knew he should have trusted his original instincts when it came to the Highlander… he should have stayed far, far away. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and all his works were nothing but trouble. 

Unbidden, he heard Joe’s disbelieving voice: So you’d let Richie die just to save yourself *trouble*? Methos growled in response, thoroughly terrifying a young woman crossing the street in front of him. He watched her suddenly decide that she wanted to walk north instead of south, then turned his angry steps down a back alley, away from the public street. His days of terrifying innocent passersby while he argued with the voices in his head were long over. Or at least, that’s what he’d told himself for centuries…

Funny, how all it took was one strong emotional blow to send a man reeling into his past, into emotions and actions he’d thought were gone for good. Methos walked down the alley, hearing Joe’s voice again and again. So you’d let Richie die just to save yourself trouble. Well, yes. Of course he would. Richie had to face Kristin on his own, live or die by his own merits. If he survived, the kid would have another head and a vital learning experience under his belt. If he died…well, it was no kindness to keep someone alive who couldn’t survive even this most basic level of The Game. Which was just another in the long and varied list of concepts Joe would never understand. Joe believed in hope; Joe believed in second chances. And third chances. And fourth, and fifth… 

Up until that morning, Joe had believed in *him*.

Damn.

A hapless beer can found its way into his path. Methos kicked at it much the same way Joe had kicked at his clothing, sending the can ricocheting of an abandoned packing crate and skittering haplessly down the middle of the alley. He walked a few more paces and gave it another kick, cursing loudly, knowing exactly what he was going to do but not quite ready to admit it. Yes, Joe had been right. Left to his own devices Methos would much rather start a business selling sunglasses to tourists in Bora Bora than get tangled up in the life of Duncan MacLeod. But he wasn’t left to his own devices, now was he? Joe was already inextricably entangled with the man, an essential part of the weird mortal and Immortal tribe MacLeod seemed to gather around him wherever he went. Whatever disharmony was currently between them, to MacLeod, Joe would always be Clan. Just as to Joe, MacLeod would always be Family. And that meant, if Methos loved him, he was Family too. 

A small, reluctant smile lit Methos’s face. It could have been worse. Joe could have come packaged with a dozen bratty kids and a meddling mother who would insist on fattening him up with ghastly homemade lasagna every time he came to visit. Compared to that, Methos supposed that getting a handful of troublesome Immortal children as in-laws really wasn’t all that bad a bargain. 

The thing was, *mortal* children seldom held a sword to your throat if you got in their way. 

Could he do it? Could he risk his own survival to protect Joe’s Immortal family? Because it was pretty damn obvious that Joe wouldn’t accept him on any other terms. Joe believed in sacrificing all for friendship, and it was impossible for him to even conceive of having a lover who thought any other way. If Methos said goodbye now, left MacLeod and Richie to their own devices, he might as well say goodbye to Joe too. And that was something he really didn’t want to do. Methos paused under the shelter of a loading dock’s overhang, looking deep inside…

…and came up with a compromise. If it came down to his survival, Methos knew which way he would choose. But ‘trouble’? Trouble he could risk…had already risked, as Joe had mercilessly pointed out. He could ratchet the risk up another notch if that’s what it took to keep Joe in his life. 

Decision made, he found his way out onto a main street and hailed a cab, giving the driver the address that had become quite infamous amongst the Watchers lately. As the cab curled through the streets of Seacouver, Methos looked down at his duffle bag wryly. Well, he did need a place to stay, and the Highlander *had* given him a blanket invitation to drop by whenever he was in town. It was time to see how much respect and awe the child really had for the World’s Oldest Man. Methos paid the driver and climbed the back stairs, knocking on the door he knew led directly into MacLeod’s loft apartment. After a moment, the door opened to reveal the man himself, looking extraordinarily startled. He stared at Methos and gaped.

Methos pasted on his best evil smile. It would be a while before the Highlander knew him well enough to interpret his expressions; when he did, this particular smile would be enough to send him screaming into the streets. For right now, though, MacLeod was just baffled, and Methos almost found himself looking forward to the scene to come. *Maybe being a meddling pain in the ass will have some compensations. There must be some reason why people like MacLeod find it irresistible.* 

“Candygram,” he said.

***

It had taken Joe Dawson less than five minutes to regret allowing Adam to leave his home in anger. 12 hours later, regret had turned into worry, a worry so intense it felt like a giant steel band was wrapped around Joe’s chest. Adam was not answering his cell phone. Joe knew this because he had left him nearly twenty messages: the series started out with a gruff “Adam, this is Joe. Call me”, progressed to a concerned “Adam? This is Joe. I’m really sorry, okay? Call me” and then finally moved to a decidedly desperate “Adam? God, I’m really starting to panic here. Call me as soon as you can. Oh, yeah, this is Joe…” as if that last fact hadn’t been made perfectly obvious by the previous messages. Joe left his phone number again anyway, just on the odd chance that Adam had somehow managed to forget it since that morning, and had to restrain himself from reminding the Immortal of his street address as well. Then he put the receiver down and paced.

By the time 12 hours had become 24, the carpeting in Joe’s living room was developing a serious trench from his pacing feet. His last message, left just after dawn, had been a panicked: “Adam? For god’s sake, pick up the damn phone sometime soon, all right? I’m going out of my mind. Look, I know I was a total asshole. I’ll sing you an entire Monkee’s medley to make it up to you if you want. Just call me at home as soon as you can, whatever time it might be—home-home or bar-home, it doesn’t matter which. Call me even if all you want to do is cuss me out. At least that way I’ll know you’re still in one piece. Please. Call me.” Joe wasn’t particularly proud of the pleading note that entered his voice on the last couple words, but the thought that Adam might have run into a sword after he left Joe’s house quickly banished any feeling of dignity he still had left. Looking at the clock, Joe dressed and reluctantly left the house for the bar. He placed his cell phone on the seat beside him as he drove, just on the off chance that it might ring and then stop ringing before he could fish it out of his pocket. 

The cell phone did not ring. 

Neither did the phone at the bar, despite the fact that Joe had left urgent messages for both Kristin’s and Richie’s Watchers, demanding that they check in verbally as soon as the bar opened. What was the deal? Had someone put some kind of curse on his phone service today, decreeing that no one would ever call him back? Joe sat on a barstool and stared at the phone on the bar, ostensibly doing paperwork but in reality simply nibbling on a pencil and staring into space. When he felt the light touch on his shoulder he nearly jumped a foot. “Jesus Christ!”

He regretted the profanity immediately. The hand belonged to his waitress Alexa. She regarded Joe with wide-eyed astonishment, making Joe feel even more ashamed of himself than he had in grade school, when Sister Mary had lectured him for taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Sorry, honey,” he apologized. “You startled me, that’s all. My thoughts were…elsewhere.”

“I can see that.” Alexa nodded at the huge pile of paperwork. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Nah. I’m just waiting for the phone to ring, that’s all. There’s nothing you can do.” Joe rubbed his hands tiredly over his face. Alexa just stood there expectantly, a large paper sack at her feet. “Is there something I can do for you, honey?”

“I wanted to give you this,” she said, pulling a big gift wrapped package out of the sack and holding it out to him. The brightly wrapped parcel, complete with a shiny frilly bow on top, looked oddly out of place in her frail arms. “Since I missed your birthday party.”

Joe blinked, very touched. His employees had thrown him a small celebration, nothing major, just coffee and a small Safeway cake eaten during their lunch hour. Alexa had missed it because she was still recovering from her latest chemotherapy appointment. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. It was the least I could do, after you’ve been so good to me.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Not a lot of bosses would let their waitresses be so flexible with their schedules. And even fewer would give a part-time employee full medical benefits. I wanted you to know how much I appreciate it.”

“Alexa, sweetheart, you tell me how much you appreciate it practically every day,” Joe said gently. “Don’t you think I know by now?”

“Maybe,” Alexa said thoughtfully. “But lately I’ve been learning that there are some things that can’t be said too often. Things like, ‘I love you.’ And ‘You’re really a special person, I’m glad you’re in my life.’” She held out the package again, looking like some kind of magical birthday elf. “Go on. Open it. I really want to know if it fits.”

Joe took the package. He carefully removed the bow and set it to one side. “You’re a really special person, Alexa,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re in my life.”

“Thank you, Joe. But you might want to reserve judgment on that until you see what’s inside the package,” Alexa teased. She inched closer as Joe unwrapped the paper, keeping her eyes on his face.

A mass of dark grey fabric spilled out into Joe’s hands, soft as a kitten’s fur. Joe shook it out and held it up. Alexa’s gift was a hand knit sweater, long sleeved and boat-necked, just the way he liked…and Joe instantly recognized that fabric, or at least he recognized the yarn it had been made from. Alexa had been carrying a skein of that dark grey wool along with a pair of knitting needles nearly everywhere for the last six months. She said it helped to keep her hands occupied, especially during the interminable hours she was forced to spend in doctor’s waiting rooms. Joe had assumed she was making something for herself, perhaps a shawl or an afghan to keep away the chills some of her medications caused. The idea that he would be the recipient of so many months of effort had never crossed his mind. “I—wow,” he said, knowing that Alexa was waiting for him to speak. “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s perfect.”

“Really?” Alexa looked anxious. “Do you like the color? I wanted to do something brighter, but I thought this would be great for when you’re on stage. You know. It will make your face and hands stand out when you’re under the lights...”

“Well, I don’t know,” Joe said, poker faced. “I have to be very careful, you see. Not everything suits this creamy complexion of mine.” Alexa rolled her eyes, and Joe repented, chucking her affectionately under the chin. “It really is perfect, Alexa. Thank you. It’s one of the best birthday gifts I’ve ever been given.”

“Really?” Alexa smiled sweetly. “Does it fit? Let me see…” She took the sweater from him, and apparently nothing would do but that he try it on then and there, Alexa pulling the fabric over his head like he was four years old. Of course Joe got hung up somewhere, only one arm making it into the proper sleeve, but that didn’t stop Alexa from smoothing the sleeve he did manage to get right into place, lips pursed as she scrutinized the place where the cuff fell against his wrist. “Hmm. Looks like I got the sleeve length just about perfect. How about the chest…oh dear, that’s not right.” She frowned at him. “You got it on back to front by mistake.”

“*I* got it on back to front?”

“Don’t be difficult, Joe. Here, let me…”

She started tugging at the fabric, trying in vain to twist it around Joe’s body. The phone rang. “Alexa?” Joe said patiently, despite the fact that he felt mummified in sweater. “Do you think we could finish the modeling session later? I really need to take that call.”

Alexa blushed. “Sure thing, Joe. Here.” 

She pulled the sweater up over his head. Gratefully free, Joe hurried to the phone, but Mike had already picked it up. “Joe’s.” He listened for a moment, then held out the phone. “For you,” he said, quietly enough that Alexa couldn’t overhear. “Richard Ryan’s Watcher.”

Not Adam. Joe wanted to scream aloud, but the sight of Alexa neatly folding his sweater and leaving it on the bar with the bow placed cheerfully back on top stopped him. The waitress had more than enough to deal with without seeing her boss suffer a nervous breakdown right at the beginning of her shift. Besides, Joe really did want to get a current report on Richie. “Dawson here,” he said into the phone. “Hello, Williams.”

“Hey, Joe. I got your message asking me to call in,” Williams said cheerfully. “What’s so urgent it couldn’t have waited?”

*Nothing, kid, nothing at all. Just the head of a young Immortal I stupidly allowed myself to think of as a friend.* “I just wanted an update on Ryan and Kristin,” he said aloud. “Kristin’s Watcher has been a bit remiss about checking in.”

“Kristin’s Watcher? You mean Stevenson?” Williams let out a low whistle. “I’m not surprised, Joe. That guy seriously weirds me out. I ran into him outside of Kristin’s apartment building last night, and all he would say to me was ‘So history’s going to repeat itself again’ with this weird little smile on his face. I tell you, that is NOT normal behavior.”

“No,” Joe agreed, this news hitting him like a ton of bricks. *Adam, Adam, you were right. John Stevenson does not belong in the field anymore. But I don’t have anyone else free right now with the experience to handle Kristin, and I can’t just leave her un-Watched, not now. What am I going to do?* “Never mind that now,” he said, as much to himself as to Richie’s Watcher. “Just let me know how Ryan’s making out with Kristin.”

Williams snickered. “’Making out’ is a good choice of words,” he said. “They’ve been together pretty much non-stop ever since they met. And Joe, when I say together, I mean *together*. That woman’s all over Richie—a couple of times I figured they’d get arrested for public lewdness. The lucky dog.” William’s voice took on a whine, reminding Joe of just how young the Watcher really was. “Just tell me one thing, Joe. What does Richie Ryan have that I don’t?”

*A spanky-new Immortal Quickening and a lot of hormonally-induced stupidity,* Joe thought. *What the hell is wrong with you, Williams? You should know that attracting Kristin’s attention is nothing to be proud of. Or do you?* Joe paused to consider this. Maybe not. Williams had only graduated from the Academy last year. He was really too inexperienced to have a full time assignment at all, but the Council had wanted a young face to blend in amongst Richie’s peers. Which meant that it was very possible that Williams hadn’t heard the story about Kristin and the Parisian models yet, and he was still too young to have developed that mental “Who’s Who Among the Really Dangerous Immortals” list all the more experienced agents had. *Great. Just what I need, another starry-eyed kid involved in this mess.*“Yeah, well, that’s one of the great mysteries, I’m afraid,” Joe said gruffly. “Listen, can you keep me posted on this? Anything changes, anything at all, you let me know.”

William’s starry-eyed state did have some advantages. He was too inexperienced to realize just how unusual Joe’s request really was. Richie was his first assignment, and with all the unconscious arrogance of every new field agent, Williams just assumed that everyone was as interested in the doings of “his” Immortal as he was. “Sure thing, Joe,” he said cheerfully. “Hey. Speaking of changes, when did Pierson start doing field work? I thought that guy was a library rat born and bred. Didn’t think anything would ever get him away from those ancient Chronicles of his. Especially not a relatively young Immortal like MacLeod.”

It felt like the floor underneath Joe tipped fifteen degrees. He grabbed onto the bar for support. “Pierson? Do you mean Adam Pierson?”

“Well, how many geeky Watcher researchers named Pierson do you know?” Williams teased. “Yeah, that one. Adam. I ran into him coming out of MacLeod’s dojo late last night. He told me all about you assigning him to Watch MacLeod temporarily.” Williamson whistled softly. “Got to admit it, the guy’s got guts. He said he wanted to see if MacLeod’s swords were hanging in the war or peace position, so he just walked into the dojo and took a look. Can you imagine? Just walking into an Immortal’s place of business like that, especially one like MacLeod? I’ll never have that kind of nerve. Even if I live to be four hundred myself.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Adam’s one in a million, all right,” Joe said weakly. “All right, Williams. Thanks for keeping me posted. Call me the second anything interesting happens, all right?”

“Sure thing, Joe. Talk to you soon.” Williams hung up. And Joe slid rather dazedly onto a bar stool, shaking his head.

***

The loft had lousy cell phone reception. Methos banged his phone against MacLeod’s terribly tasteful end table yet again, unable to convince the infernal device to cough up so much as a dial tone, let alone allow him to retrieve his messages. Damn. He’d been on tenterhooks all last night, wondering why Joe hadn’t called. He should have realized that the phone had been much too quiet. Why hadn’t he thought to check the signal strength earlier? Grumbling, Methos slipped on his coat and stepped out onto MacLeod’s external stairs, tremendously encouraged when the signal bar suddenly flickered to life. Hmmm. Had he discovered a mysterious hole in the Seacouver cell phone network? Or was the lack of signal due to MacLeod’s unusually high level of participation in the Game, some weird consequence of taking too many Quickenings in one building? Methos didn’t know, and he couldn’t really bring himself to care, except to reflect snarkily that it was just like MacLeod to pick the one reception-less place in the city to make his home. The man seemed determined to see to it that Methos died of terminal frustration… 

It was now more than twenty-eight hours since Methos had left Joe. Day Two of the great Get MacLeod To Take Kristin’s Head Before Kristin Took MacLeod’s experiment. Thus far, Methos had to admit that he hadn’t met with much success. And it had started out so promisingly, too. MacLeod had reacted to the news of Kristin and Richie’s relationship exactly as Methos had expected, with just the right amount of jealousy and righteous rage. The Highlander had stormed off immediately to confront the she-dragon in her lair, and Methos had gone along for the ride, confident that the world would be missing one more useless Immortal by the end of the day. Why, there might even have been enough time to get back to Joe for a late dinner…

But it hadn’t worked out that way. Kristin had played MacLeod with all the skill of a pianist at Carnegie Hall, emerging from their little confrontation with not just her head, but the upper hand as well. Methos had to admire her. He was something of an expert when it came to emotional blackmail, and her last barb: “Are you going to kill me, now? Is that what you do with all your lovers when you’re through with them?” was a truly first class piece of manipulation, one that almost had Methos surrendering his World’s Most Manipulative Bastard prize. Given MacLeod’s upbringing and heroic tendencies, suggesting that he was less than honorable where women were concerned was the smartest thing Kristin could do. Those two sentences had incapacitated the Highlander more thoroughly than any sword. Methos had been doing his best to counteract Kristin’s effect ever since, cajoling and debating and generally making himself into a good old-fashioned pain in the ass. But nothing seemed to work. 

So now MacLeod was inside the dojo doing kata after kata in a vain attempt to recapture his serenity, Richie was still walking around in blissful ignorance of the fact that his days were numbered, and Methos was getting more frustrated by the minute. He was tired, he was discouraged, and he missed Joe terribly. Throw in last night’s unexpected run in with Richie’s young Watcher and there you had it, a situation that gave a whole new meaning to the term “aggravating”. Methos had even begun to wonder how long it would take to re-grow his hair if he ended up tearing it out by the roots.

But at least the cell phone mystery appeared to be solved. By the time Methos had reached the alley at the bottom of MacLeod’s stairs, his phone had started blinking at him cheerfully, once again signaling its willingness to serve him to the best of its electronic ability. Methos dialed in the code that accessed his voicemail, hoping beyond hope that there would be a message from Joe. What he heard outdid his wildest expectations. Joe’s first message played in his ear, then the second, then the third, then the fourth. By the time Methos had gotten to the twenty-first, which contained Joe’s offer of an impromptu Monkee’s medley, Methos didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He dialed, fingers strangely shaky as they pressed the familiar pattern of numbers, and when he heard the mortal say “Joe’s?” with an equal amount of hope and panic Methos had to close his eyes against the sudden rush of emotion he felt. “Cheer up, Sleepy Jean,” he said softly.

“Adam?” Joe whispered his name into the phone. That whisper told Methos everything he needed to know about what Joe had gone through since he’d left. Disbelief, worry, and joy all warred in the sound. A second later it all collapsed into one angry sentence, shouted with all the force of a rushing avalanche. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING AT MACLEOD’S?”

Methos jumped. It really was a good thing he was Immortal and that his eardrums healed as quickly as the rest of him. Otherwise, he might never have heard out of that ear again. “I see Williams told on me,” he said meekly when the ringing subsided.

“Yeah. I guess you could say he did,” Joe said testily. “I was *really* amazed to discover that I’d assigned a researcher to be MacLeod’s new temporary Watcher.”

Methos winced. “It wasn’t one of my most brilliant cover stories, was it,” he said. “But Williams took me by surprise, Joe. I had to explain what I was doing at the dojo somehow. And…well, he seemed to buy it.”

“Lucky for you,” Joe answered. “I guess we should both thank our lucky stars that Williams is a moron. If Richie had a *smart* Watcher, it could have been very bad.” Methos uncomfortably shrugged his shoulders up to his ears; Joe was right. The musician’s voice became less angry. “Adam, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Such a good question. Methos used his free hand to pull his coat closer around him, a vain attempt to keep the cold Seacouver wind from freezing his bones. “I’m just doing what you wanted me to do, Joe,” he said tiredly. “I’m trying to see to it that both Richie and MacLeod keep their heads for another week or two.” He paused, thinking of Kristin’s anger, MacLeod’s displeasure. “And keep my own while I’m about it.”

“But you said…” Joe choked off the words, was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, there was a hollow quality to his voice that nearly broke Methos’s heart. “Is it really that dangerous, Adam?”

“Putting yourself in between two angry Immortals is always dangerous, Joe.”

“But you’re doing it anyway?” Now Joe sounded confused. “Why, Adam?”

“I decided that a certain Watcher I’m in love with was worth the trouble.” 

There were a few beats of silence, and then Joe said “Oh,” sounding absolutely flabbergasted. Methos smiled faintly, imagining the musician’s face, the guilt and love and happiness that must be battling for expression. After a moment, Joe swallowed awkwardly. “Adam, I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Methos answered. “We can talk about it later. When I’m home.”

“Home?” 

Methos knew Joe was thinking he meant Paris. “‘Home-home or bar home, it doesn’t matter which,’” he quoted. Joe gave a little sound of recognition, half chuckle, half sob. Methos sobered. “But that may take a few days. Listen, Joe. MacLeod doesn’t know you’re involved in this, and I think it should stay that way. I’m busy being obnoxiously old and wise to him right now, trying to convince him that a world without Kristin in it is worth a few blemishes on his precious chivalric code…”

“Do you really think it will come to that?” Joe interrupted. “Do you think he’ll have to take her head?”

“Do you honestly see any other solution?” Methos asked. “You know what kind of woman Kristin is, Joe. The only question in my mind is whether MacLeod does it before or after Kristin takes Richie’s head. I’m doing my best to make sure it’s before.” Joe made an unhappy noise, but he didn’t disagree. Methos sighed. “Look, as I was saying. MacLeod thinks I’m here of my own accord, meddling in his life for my own mysterious old guy reasons. I’m going to do my best to keep him thinking it. That way, if this all ends badly, it will be me he blames, not you.” Methos felt his fingers tighten on the phone. “But that means I won’t be able to call you in his presence. I promise I’ll check in when I can. But that might not be very often. I—I hope you understand.”

“I understand,” Joe said at once. Methos could hear the gratitude, as well as the incipient apology just waiting to be said aloud. “Adam, I—“

“Later, Joe. I need to go back in before MacLeod realizes I’m out here. We’ll say everything we need to later, I promise. When I’m home.” 

“All right,” Joe agreed. “Can I at least tell you to be careful? Is that allowed?”

“Yes,” Methos said thoughtfully. “I think I very much need to hear that, now.” 

“Then be careful,” Joe said. “Please. And come home soon.”

“I will.”

Methos ended the call, looking sadly at the quiet phone. God, but he wanted this whole thing to be over. He wanted Kristin peacefully dead and Richie and MacLeod both noisily alive, so he could stop being some kind of wise Immortal Father Flannigan cum annoying devil’s advocate and just get back to Joe. Funny. Had it been just two days ago that he’d been angst-ridden because he’d thought Joe couldn’t accept the parts of him that weren’t Adam Pierson? At the moment, being ‘just Adam’ sounded pretty damn good. But he had a job in front of him, one ‘just Adam’ could never accomplish on his own. Shaking his head, Methos folded the phone closed and started for the dojo doors. 

It was time to get back to MacLeod. And let the real Methos out to play.

***

“MacLeod-San. That katana is a lovely piece of art. May I?”

Methos had to give Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod this: the Highlander really wasn’t as dumb as he looked. He frowned at Methos suspiciously as Methos stripped off his coat and approached him across the dojo floor, clearly reluctant to let Methos touch his beloved sword. Fortunately, MacLeod’s suspicion was no match for Methos’s best stupid look. Methos had perfected that expression in the blood thirsty courts of Middle Kingdom Egypt more than three thousand years before MacLeod’s birth; how could the child possibly stand a chance? And even if Mac *had* survived the look, Methos’s mocking assurance that he had indeed washed his hands was the Highlander’s undoing. No man likes to feel foolish. Duncan offered Methos the sword with a little bow. And Methos took it.

Took it, and smiled with a predatory delight he hadn’t let himself feel for much too long. Oh, yes. What a beauty. The katana settled into Methos’s hand as if it had been made for him and him alone. Methos took a moment just to relish the feel of the sword in his hand, to watch the light gleam off the razor edge. Then he swung it around and, with deadly accuracy, positioned the edge of the blade squarely at the hollow of Duncan MacLeod’s throat. 

MacLeod’s look of confusion, laced with the smallest hint of fear, was even sweeter than the feel of the sword. It had been a long, long time since Methos had held another Immortal in such a position. The Highlander swiftly backed away. Methos saw to it that the katana followed his every move. “Not funny Methos,” Duncan ground out as his back collided with the dojo wall.

“Not meant to be,” Methos answered. And it wasn’t. Oh, there certainly was a comic side: what could be funnier than an Immortal two centuries out of the Game tricking Duncan MacLeod out of his own sword? Methos didn’t expect the Highlander to see it right away, but he was painting a very ridiculous picture, and he knew it. There was no way an Immortal of his age and limited fire could possibly win against a warrior like MacLeod. It was only Methos’s sheer frustration with MacLeod’s inability to see the obvious that had made him consider taking this course of action in the first place.

But… it was very strange. Now that he was here, watching MacLeod’s eyes flicker uneasily toward the blade, the thought of taking the Highlander’s head no longer seemed so ridiculous. Instead, it felt…possible. Even desirable. *Well, what do you know,* Methos thought as his body moved into a posture it hadn’t held outside of practice for more than two hundred years, the electric charge of MacLeod’s Quickening tingling down the length of the blade. *You can take the boy away from the Challenges, but you can’t take the Challenge out of the boy. This is actually going to be fun.* MacLeod started to speak. Methos rocked the blade over his throat, and the Highlander shut his mouth again, sending a shock of anticipatory pleasure through Methos’s body that was undeniable. *Well, well. Isn’t this a turn up for the books? You are lucky, MacLeod, that you were born a thousand years too late to meet the truly Immortal me. And luckier still that the current me loves a man who cares for you too much to ever forgive the man who killed you. I won’t take your head, but this little exercise has awakened enough of my old instincts to make showing you the error of your ways a much greater pleasure than I had anticipated. Let’s let enough of the old predator shine through to teach you a lesson you will never forget, shall we?* “Not only are you naïve, now you are weaponless. How have you lived this long?” Methos inquired mockingly. “Do you know how many mortals she’s killed? Do you want a list?”

“All right,” the Highlander said, trying desperately to find a more comfortable position against the blade. Methos could almost see the wheels turning in MacLeod’s head, could almost hear him desperately trying to come up with a way to escape. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” Methos let the blade bite into MacLeod’s neck. He didn’t cut deep enough to draw blood, but he did slice through a few layers of skin, causing a definite tingle as MacLeod’s formidable Quickening instantly healed the wound. Oh, yes, this was a strong one, with enough power to be truly intoxicating. If it wasn’t for Joe…but it was. Methos had a job to do. “One day she is going to kill you.”

He had, at least, succeeding in getting the Highlander’s attention. MacLeod’s head snapped out of its submissive posture, fire in his eyes. “She’s tried already.” He put a strong emphasis on “tried.”

“I know she has,” Methos answered. “I’ve read your Chronicle, MacLeod. She’s tried three times altogether, unless there was a fourth the Watchers somehow missed. Each time, she made it clear that she wanted your head. And each time you… let… her… walk… away.” Methos rocked the blade with each of the last four words, drawing four more prickles of Quickening fire. Time to make the final point. Methos moved in closer, close enough that he could feel the heat of MacLeod’s body through his sweater. “You’re better with a blade than her, yes. You’re stronger than her, yes. But if you keep letting her walk away, one day she gets lucky and takes your head. YES.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” MacLeod’s lip twisted, defiance gleaming in his eyes. “Maybe she’ll stop to gloat like you.” And before Methos could so much as take a step back, the Highlander had lifted his hands and shoved the sword away. Startled, Methos failed to absorb the momentum of the shove and went tumbling to the ground. “You want to play,” MacLeod said darkly as he stalked across the dojo floor. And he pulled a practice sword from the wall. 

*Challenge.* It was only the smallest of whispers, the tiniest of voices at the back of Methos’s mind. But it was enough to make Methos’s heart beat fast and his blood thrill with intoxicating lust. *Challenge.* Methos tried to cover his body’s instinctive reaction, summoning up one of Adam Pierson’s best indignant quips: “Great! So you knock me on my bum for making a bad joke. Very macho,” but the time for quips had passed. MacLeod was closing on him, the dark joy of anticipated combat clearly reflected in his eyes. Methos knew he only had a few more seconds to make his point before MacLeod swung and the encounter suddenly became about something else altogether. “You keep letting her walk away without even taking a shot,” he said archly, getting to his feet and beginning to move around MacLeod in a defensive circler. “That is very suicidal.”

MacLeod’s eyes darkened. “You know what she was to me.”

“Yes.” Methos nodded sagely. “And I know what she is. A killer.” MacLeod made a soft growling sound, sword up and ready. Methos pointed his own directly at MacLeod’s heart. “You treat her like one,” he said. 

And the Challenge was joined.

For Challenge it was. They both tried to pretend it wasn’t, both tried to act like it was just a friendly spar between friends: “Oh! You do Fabre’s technique.” “It’s working, isn’t it?” “Not for long!” But that was just a cloak. As they engaged, separated, circled, evaluated and engaged again, both of them knew this wasn’t a game. Oh, perhaps it wouldn’t be fought to its ultimate conclusion—perhaps, by some miracle, when it was over both of them would walk away—but neither of them was taking any chances, and no one was pulling any punches. If the battle ended without the death blow, it would only be formality. One of them was going to win and one was going to lose, if not his head, then everything else. And Methos suddenly discovered that he very, very much wanted to win.

It startled him. He’d genuinely thought he was past this. He’d been so sure that he’d lost the craving, lost the fire. Certainly, when Kalas had Challenged him in Paris, Methos had felt nothing but disgust. But fighting MacLeod was different. Methos found himself enlivened, aroused, genuinely engaged in the battle for the first time in centuries. He reached for moves he hadn’t trained in five hundred years, and when it became evident that even those long-unused skills could not make MacLeod so much as misstep Methos fought on anyway. He needed to show the Highlander what he was made of, needed to prove himself a worthy Challenger even if he had been destined to lose before they began. Needed to prove himself worthy of being taken…

Later, Methos would realize that the moment he thought that was the moment he lost. The actual fight went on for quite some time: almost twenty minutes, a fact Methos would take some small, wounded pride in later, as few Challengers ever managed to delay MacLeod that long. But the ending was already predetermined. MacLeod maneuvered him into the corner, distracted him with a feint that left Methos overbalanced and vulnerable; the Highlander’s feet moved with sight-blurring speed, giving the final kick that sent Methos to his knees. The katana swung up and around, gathering force for the death blow. 

Methos watched the glistening blade leave his field of vision and re-enter it with alarming speed, and for the second time that day he was surprised. He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t regretful. He wasn’t even mildly peeved. Instead he was happy, anticipating the sword fall with a craving that was almost erotic. Methos looked up into MacLeod’s faced, so focused, so beautiful in its determined strength, and suddenly understood the reason why: MacLeod had forced his surrender on every level of the battle, not just the physical. If he lost his head now MacLeod would get everything: every memory, every thought, every skill. Nothing would be lost. And the relief of that was so strong Methos’s heart sang. At last, he could lay the burden down! At last, at last, at long long last…

But the katana stopped against his neck, with so much control that Methos’s skin wasn’t even nicked. MacLeod was staring down at him, a look of deep confusion on his face. Methos wondered what his own features were giving away—and, as more rational thought started to return, he quickly decided that whatever it was, it was sure to be too much. Damn it, the situation had already been complicated enough without this! Methos looked down at the floor, knowing he had to do something, anything, to distract MacLeod and regain the upper hand. When he looked up again he was suddenly Adam Pierson, awkward and innocent and ever so guileless. “I’ve got to practice more,” he announced to the room at large. “You guys have a lot of new moves.”

The distraction worked. MacLeod was not about to let him slip back into harmless Adam Pierson mode now. In fact, the very idea that Methos would try to pull such a stunt after the battle they’d just fought offended him deeply. Cold anger slid into the Highlander’s eyes, mercifully wiping away the surprise. “It’s called *progress*,” he said. And probably just to pay Methos back for his earlier treatment, he gave the katana the tiny twist that made it cut into Methos’s skin at last. 

Petty. But understandable. Methos sought for another quip even as his treacherous body, still craving the release it had been so nearly offered, stretched out its neck to rub along the blade, deepening the cut. MacLeod saw it. His anger dissipated as quickly as it had come, his puzzlement resurfacing. With great effort Methos pulled his neck away. “Well, get on with it,” he said, suddenly remembering what it had been that had started the fight in the first place. “Before Kristin kills you and your friend.”

This time, the distraction didn’t work. MacLeod simply stared at him some more. He looked like he was about to say something, but then a third Immortal buzz swept through the room. A young man came in through the dojo doors, regarding them both with concern as he tucked his motorcycle helmet under his arm. “I take it this…is not for real?”

Richard Ryan, in the flesh. MacLeod snapped the katana up and over his arm. Methos felt its absence both as a relief and as a loss. Silently, he blessed the boy for choosing that exact moment to arrive. Another few seconds and Methos had no idea what he would have done. “God forbid,” he said. More fervently than the young Immortal could ever guess.

“Just making a point,” the Highlander agreed, then stared at Methos as if he couldn’t quite figure out what to say next, how to explain this little tableau to his student. “Richie, this is…”

And Methos’s apparently quite faulty survival instincts suddenly came back from whatever vacation they’d been on, causing him to get to his feet and offer his hand to Richie before MacLeod could finish that sentence. The Highlander was none too cautious with Methos’s real name at the best of times. Heaven only knew what he would tell the boy at this particular moment. “Um, I’m Adam Pierson,” Methos introduced himself smoothly. “You must be Richie Ryan. Sensei here…” he gave MacLeod a suitable look of affectionate awe, as befitted a favored student who’d just been thrashed by the master… “…speaks very highly of you.”

MacLeod coughed and turned away. Richie beamed, as innocently pleased by the praise as a puppy. “Oh, really? Well, thanks very much, Mac,” he said, causing Methos to wonder if he had ever been that naïve. Richie then took MacLeod by the arm and pushed him toward the elevator, dismissing Methos as thoroughly as Methos had intended him to. “Listen, Mac. I just met the most amazing woman…”

*Old news, kid* Methos thought as teacher and student walked across the dojo floor. Funny, how one person could shake up so many other people’s lives without even knowing. Methos waited until the pair had disappeared into MacLeod’s elevator. Then he touched his neck, feeling the place where the katana had rested. “Oh, Joe,” he said softly as the elevator ascended, carrying Richie and MacLeod out of earshot. “What have you gotten me into?”

There was no answer, not even from his own soul. Methos shook his head. Did MacLeod have any idea what had really just happened here? That he was now merely a single sword stroke away from absorbing the entire Quickening of one of the oldest Immortals to have ever lived? Judging from MacLeod’s confusion, Methos guessed he did not, and that was all for the good. Keeping MacLeod in ignorance would keep some kind of balance in their relationship, allow them to go on as equals. But the Highlander didn’t have to know the truth for the situation to have changed completely. Duncan MacLeod was now, unquestionably, the gravest threat to Methos’s survival that Methos had faced in more than two thousand years.

He was also far too precious to lose.

Methos let his fingers linger on his neck for a few seconds more. Then he saw to it that MacLeod’s practice sword was cleaned and put away before he carried the dragon head katana up to the loft, determined to do whatever it took to keep the Highlander alive.

***

“A bunch of medieval songwriters come up with the idea of chivalry one rainy day…”

MacLeod, calmly painting the front porch railing of the house he was restoring, looked up to stare at Methos curiously. “This isn’t about chivalry,” he said. He sounded startled that Methos would even bring the concept up.

Methos gave this comment all the respect that it deserved. Not about chivalry? Please. There was nothing else that it *could* be about. Kristin was a danger to society, Kristin had killed innocent mortals, Kristin had repeatedly threatened MacLeod’s life. In short, she had fulfilled every single one of the moral requirements MacLeod typically required before taking a head. The only thing that made Kristin different from any of the other Immortal criminals MacLeod had dispatched was her sex. “…and you embrace it as a lifestyle,” Methos continued just as if the Highlander hadn’t spoken, picking up a sanding tool and flourishing it for extra emphasis. “You live--and die--by a code of ethics that was trendy when you were a kid.”

MacLeod ignored the flourish in much the same way that Methos had ignored his interruption. He simply kept dabbing paint onto the banister with his own brush. “Would you rather I had no code of honor at all?”

“I’d rather you survived,” Methos snapped. “You put that first.”

It was now Day Three of Operation Get MacLeod to Take Kristin’s Head. After yesterday’s revelations in the dojo, it was now more critical than ever that the threat of Kristin be removed…but Methos was beginning to wonder if he’d ever get MacLeod to see reason. Thus far subtlety, emotional manipulation, and an outright physical attack had all failed. In the absence of any more practical option, Methos had decided to use the only weapon he had left: a good old fashioned lecture. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be sinking in. “Do you think,” the Highlander said softly, a slight quaver in his voice, “that it’s easy, killing a woman you’ve held in your arms? A woman you’ve made love to?”

Much later, Methos would realize that he should have paid more attention to that statement. The quaver, along with the deepening of the pain in MacLeod’s brown eyes, should have told Methos that the Highlander was genuinely trying to tell him something, was not just making a ritual protest for argument’s sake. But Methos was tired, frustrated, and felt like he’d been arguing in circles for the last two days. All he wanted was to get this business finished and go home to Joe. “Take it from me, it’s easier than dying!” he said, and when MacLeod simply shook his head in exasperation and moved away, Methos patted his own chest in a desperate attempt to regain his attention. “Look at me, MacLeod,” he commanded. “I didn’t last five thousand years by worrying about anyone else but myself.”

MacLeod studied him for a moment, an unfathomable expression in his eyes. And then he did something completely unexpected: he smiled. It was a very nice smile, Methos was rather startled to note. A bit on the patronizing side, but Methos really couldn’t blame him for that. After all, Methos had been patronizing the hell out of the younger Immortal for days. “Really?” the Highlander said. “You could have fooled me.”

And then he reached out and painted Methos’s nose. 

It had been quite a long time since anyone had succeeded in making the World’s Oldest Immortal feel foolish. Not self-conscious, not embarrassed, but genuine old-fashioned schoolboy foolish. And it wasn’t the knowledge that he was standing there with a ridiculous painted nose that did it, although that certainly helped. Rather, it was the expression on MacLeod’s face, his affectionate smugness of having caught Methos in such an overwhelming lie. Because it had been a lie, of course. MacLeod had caught him hook, line, and sinker. There was no point in trying to argue it further. Methos reached up to rub the paint off his nose. He stopped when he realized he was making his fingers as gooey as his face. “Well. I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he said pettishly, but even he could hear that the words didn’t have a tenth of the venom he could normally have injected. “Four hundred years old, and the best you can come up with when we have a disagreement is to cover my nose with grey emulsion? What’s next? Are you going to take me to the playground and shove my face in a mud pie?”

“No.”

“No? What a shame.” Methos started looking for a rag to clean his nose. Unfortunately, the only ones in sight were already covered with paint. He sat down on the porch steps and started rifling through MacLeod’s toolbox, hoping to find a clean one inside. “After you finished with the mud, you could have had such fun rubbing bubblegum in my hair. Unless you just wanted to go straight to stealing my lunch money.”

“Why, Methos.” Eyes sparkling, MacLeod placed his hands on his hips, his lips curled into the most annoying smirk. “Are you trying to call me a bully?”

“If the shoe fits…” Methos muttered, still rifling through the toolbox. You’d have thought a man as ridiculously organized about his home improvement projects as MacLeod would have thought to tuck in a spare roll of paper towels. “Damn it,” Methos swore. “Don’t you have anything clean I can use to wipe my face? Or are you planning to drive me back to the dojo like this so all the rest of the neighborhood kids can point their fingers and call me names?”

“No, Methos. Not at all.” MacLeod went to the corner of the porch, where a cardboard box of painting supplies had been placed. He produced a clean rag and tossed it to Methos on the stairs with an easy underhand throw. “As a matter of fact, I had something much more…adult…in mind.”

Methos glanced up sharply. MacLeod was leaning against the non-painted portion of the porch in a very casual manner, to all appearances completely at ease. But there was something almost predatory about the way his eyes settled over Methos that made Methos’s heartbeat quicken. “Oh really,” he said as he raised the torn terry cloth to his face, trying to sound just as casual. “And what would that be, pray tell?”

“The two of us being honest with each other.”

Methos’s hand stilled for a long moment. Then he started scrubbing slowly. “I see,” he said. “And just what do you want me to be honest about? The effect of different paint removers on 5,000 year old skin?”

“No.” The Highlander shook his head. “I’d like you to tell me just why it’s so important to you that I take Kristin’s head.”

Uh-oh. Of all the times for the Highlander to start being perceptive... “Kristin’s head doesn’t matter to me at all,” Methos said evasively, still scrubbing his nose. “I simply don’t want her to take yours.”

“Yes, but why?” MacLeod persisted. He closed the space between them in three long steps, coming to stand at the bottom of the stairs. “For a man who claims not to care about anything, who proudly tells anyone and everyone that he never goes out of his way to interfere in another person’s fate, you’ve been doing an awful lot of interfering lately. And I’ve been going out of my mind trying to come up with a reason why.”

“Well, given the limited amount of space you have in there, that doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Methos snarked back, hoping the sarcasm would cover his sudden panic. He started to get to his feet. MacLeod stopped him, placing one broad hand on each of Methos’s shoulders, effectively pinning him to the step. “MacLeod!”

MacLeod ignored him. “You know, at first I thought you were here because you might have made some kind of promise to Darius to look after me,” he said, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing in Methos’s personal space, that his hands were forcibly keeping Methos from moving away. “But if that were true, you would have tried to talk me out of at least one of the other risky Challenges I’ve taken lately. You haven’t. For some reason this situation with Kristin is special. So then I started thinking that you might have a history of your own with Kristin, some reason why you wanted her dead in particular. But I know she saw you in the car with me when I confronted her yesterday, and she didn’t seem to recognize you at all. So…” The pressure on Methos’s shoulders lightened, became more of a caress than a restraint. “That leaves just one option. Something much more…personal.”

Yes. More of caress, indeed. Methos was suddenly acutely aware of the Highlander’s nearness, the scent of his skin and clothes, the breath that swooshed in and out of the powerful chest. Most of all he was aware of his Quickening, a steady hum of power just below the range of audible hearing. It was like suddenly being dosed with one of the world’s most powerful aphrodisiacs…and judging from MacLeod’s knowing look, the Highlander was feeling it, too. Oh Christ. What had he gotten himself into now? “MacLeod, you’re wrong,” Methos said reasonably, although with the sensations MacLeod was stirring in him, reasonable was the last thing he felt. “It’s not what you think. It’s not that simple…”

“No. Between Immortals, it never is,” MacLeod replied, with so much simple wisdom that Methos found himself nodding. MacLeod cocked his head to one side, looked at Methos appraisingly. “What’s the matter, Methos? You seeing someone else?”

It was a fragile lifeline, but Methos clutched at it. *Yes. Think of Joe. Don’t think of power, of pleasure, of strength. Especially don’t think of the way it feels to have sword-calloused fingers…oh god…brush your neck just there. This is just a moment, a passing moment. It’s startling to be sure, but ultimately unimportant. More to the point, it is not a complication you need.* “As a matter of fact…”

“A mortal?” Methos nodded quickly. “What’s her name? No, don’t answer that,” MacLeod replied. “If she’s mortal, she doesn’t have a part in this.”

“No?” Methos laughed softly. “Somehow I doubt my significant other would agree, MacLeod.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does or if she doesn’t,” MacLeod replied. “It doesn’t matter how much you play at being human, Methos. It doesn’t matter how convincing a mortal you make from day to day. There are parts of our lives our human lovers simply cannot understand. No matter how much they care for us.” One of MacLeod’s hands found its way to Methos’s hair, stroking a short lock away from the ancient’s face. “No mortal can give you what I can give you, Methos.”

Methos didn’t know which was more startling—the words, or the calm, sad intensity with which MacLeod said them. “Oh?” he said, and he had to work hard to make the word come out as a question, instead of the sigh his body really wanted it to be. “And what can you give me?”

“Understanding.” MacLeod moved his hand from Methos’s hair back to his neck, lightly brushing Methos’s Adam’s apple with the back of his hand. “And the possibility of a meaningful death.”

Shocked, Methos tilted his head back. It exposed his throat, making him ridiculously vulnerable, but he had to look the Highlander in the face, had to see what was in his eyes. It was a mistake. His seated position meant that MacLeod was now standing over him at an angle very similar to the one he’d held when Methos had lost that damned fight in the dojo, and the energy of that moment suddenly crackled between them: MacLeod’s dominance, Methos’s submission, and the sweet knowledge that here at last was an end that wouldn’t be a tragic waste. Methos could almost feel the katana pressing against his throat, and his mouth went dry as he remembered how eagerly he’d stretched his neck toward the blade. “We’ve fought twice now, Methos,” Macleod said softly. “Both times I won. The first time I didn’t pay much attention—there was a lot going on, and anyway I was sure you were playing me, surrendering without a fight. But this last time…I felt it. I won more than just the sword match. I made you kneel.” He moved his hand to Methos’s cheek, setting off an erotic tingle that flowed through Methos’s entire body. “I think you’ve been waiting a long time for that, waiting for the person who could absorb all of your Quickening when you finally got too tired to go on. And now that you’ve found me, you need to keep me alive, make sure that I dispose of the Kristin’s of the world before they can dipose of me. Am I right?”

So unfair, so unfair. It was bad enough for Methos to have to admit to himself that part of him craved death, and craved it from this child’s hand. To have the child know it too was a hideous humiliation, the worst shame Methos could imagine. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to push the Highlander away, tell him he was insane in as cutting a voice as he could manage, and then get the hell out of there. But the knee jerk response fell away, drowned by the power Methos could feel thrumming just under the surface of MacLeod’s skin. “Yesss,” Methos hissed. “Yes.”

“I’m right? This isn’t just another one of your games?”

“No.”

A look of complete wonder came over the Highlander’s face. “Then it’s true,” he said. “I really could take you. Not just your head. All of you.” Methos nodded tightly, his lips between his teeth. Duncan tilted his chin up. “I won’t, you know. Even if the day comes that you ask,” he promised softly, and Methos’s heart broke at that, simultaneously accepting the promise as the golden gift it was and wishing to the bottom of his soul that MacLeod had never given it. He didn’t deserve—could never deserve—could never ask— The confusion must have shown on his face, because MacLeod shook his head, looking ever so fondly exasperated. He tilted Methos’s head to a still more convenient angle. Then he kissed him on the lips.

It was too much. All the pain and confusion of the last few days suddenly overwhelmed Methos, and he found himself kissing back with a passion, rooting deeply inside the Highlander’s mouth just to feel the power of that astonishing Quickening tingle over his tongue. The parts of him that were Adam Pierson started screaming inside, yelling that he was betraying Joe beyond imagining. But Methos hadn’t truly been Adam Pierson for days now, not since he’d left Joe’s home. Besides, even Young Adam had to admit that MacLeod was right. Joe could never understand this feeling, the way MacLeod’s Quickening called to him with a siren lure. Joe could never understand the craving Methos felt to surrender everything to this man, life and soul and body, and rejoice in the surrendering. Methos yielded to the kiss, intoxicated by the life he felt flowing through the Highlander like a river. No. Mortality had no place in this. 

After several breathless moments, MacLeod, still kissing, wordlessly urged Methos to his feet. Methos let him maneuver him backward into the shelter of the porch. When Methos’s head bumped into the siding MacLeod broke the kiss, and Methos started to kneel: some deep inner voice whispered that his proper place was on his knees before this man, even if it wasn’t a sword fight that had brought him there. MacLeod stopped him. “Not about that,” he said quickly, kissing Methos quickly to silence him even as his hands found their way to Methos’s jeans, unzipping him speedily and slipping inside. “This isn’t about taking…at least not the way you think. I want your pleasure, Methos, and I want you to know you’re safe with me. Can you give me that?”

Silent laughter spasmed bitterly in Methos’s throat. Safe with him? Dear god. The Highlander was the last person on earth Methos could ever be safe with now. The only question was if Methos truly wanted it to be any other way. MacLeod was already stroking him, using the sure, firm strokes of an Immortal who knew his partner couldn’t break; his hand surrounded Methos in heat and sweet, unbearable pressure that worked him without mercy, expertly pulling shudders of sensation from the base of Methos’s cock up to the tip. Methos let his head fall back against the house, already too far gone to object or make any sound beyond his gasps of pleasure. But then MacLeod dropped to *his* knees, and this was startling enough that some sense of sanity returned. “MacLeod?”

The Highlander paused, his nose a bare two inches from the tip of Methos’s cock. He looked up at Methos with an expression that might have been exasperation. “Yes, Methos?”

“I can’t…this isn’t…oh, fuck.” MacLeod had just exhaled, sending a stream of warm air right across Methos’s crown. With great effort, Methos pulled enough pieces of his rapidly shattering brain together to find the words that he needed. “This can only happen once,” he said. 

“Oh?” Snakelike, MacLeod’s tongue flickered out. Tasting.

“Yes,” Methos nodded emphatically. The jolt of electricity that went through him from that moist, teasing flicker of MacLeod’s tongue meant that he ended up looking a bit like a wobbly headed dog sitting in the back of someone’s car, but at least he was making the effort. “I have a life, a mortal who cares about me. I don’t want to…” He fought to steady himself. “I *can’t* mess that up.”

“Oh.” MacLeod looked thoughtful, an expression that seemed very out of place given the position his face was currently inhabiting. “It’s all right, Methos. I don’t want to take your life, anymore than I want to take your head.” He smiled then, toothily, almost like an alligator. “But I *do* want this. Need this. Let me?”

Methos barely had time for a final nod before the Highlander was moving forward, his lips closing around Methos’s shaft. Oh. Had all of MacLeod’s Watchers been idiots, when they said MacLeod had never taken a male lover? Or had they just been blind? MacLeod swallowed him down with a hunger that clearly said this wasn’t the first time he’d done this, sucking eagerly, doing incredibly wicked things with his tongue. Methos looked down to see an expression that was just as intense as the one MacLeod had worn at the end of their battle in the dojo, but with much more tenderness; the sight of that beautiful, passionate face bobbing up and down his shaft was too much for him. Methos groaned, and when MacLeod hummed his encouragement he gave in. He came with a gasp, seed spurting down MacLeod’s welcoming throat.

After that, he made no objection when MacLeod left him briefly to fetch a tube of workman’s hand cream from the supernaturally well-stocked cardboard box, no protest at all when MacLeod led him into the house and turned his body to face the wall. Methos even stripped of his own shirt and then toed off his own hiking boots so that MacLeod could slide his jeans all the way off, spreading his legs shamelessly wide as he braced himself against the unfinished drywall. MacLeod’s slick fingers entered him briefly, testing, but Methos was already as open as he could possibly be; the only delay he made was to reach a hand back and fumble anxiously at MacLeod’s hair tie, wanting to feel the long brown locks streaming freely against his neck. MacLeod chuckled and obliged, removing not just hair tie but shirt as well, so that when he once again wrapped himself around Methos his arms and chest were bare. Methos arched his back so that MacLeod’s broad thick heat could penetrate him more easily even as MacLeod’s Quickening flowed through him like a river, sinking into his muscles and surrounding him with strength. He surrendered, and felt himself truly taken as MacLeod moved in him.

It felt like it might just go on forever.

***

Mornings after are always awkward. Especially when they happen in the middle of the afternoon. The two Immortals dressed in silence, rapidly zipping up pants and tucking in shirts; Methos turned his back on the Highlander as he tied his boots, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to think. He knew that his thoughts would come later, way too many of them, and he wanted at least an hour of sweet oblivion before he had to think about what he had done. Perhaps it would be best if neither of them said anything at all. They could be silent all the way back to the loft, and then Methos could go elsewhere, find a hotel to stay at. It would be a shame to give up MacLeod’s comfortable couch and refrigerator full of beer, but Methos could manage, just as long as neither he nor the Highlander said a single word in the meantime. Yes. That was a plan he could work with.

Unfortunately, Methos could feel the Highlander’s eyes on him the whole time he was fiddling with his laces, and the moment Methos straightened MacLeod had to ruin everything by snickering. He tried to stifle it, but that just made it worse: the snicker came out as a snort, impossible to disguise. Methos turned on him. “What?” he demanded angrily.

“It’s nothing,” the Highlander said, then promptly snorted again. Methos glared at him. MacLeod gestured helplessly at Methos’s face. “It’s just…you look very fetching in grey, Methos. I think we’ve found your color.”

Methos stared at him for a moment, then he remembered…that damn paint. The paint he hadn’t managed to rub off had dried now, and when Methos scratched at it a little flaked off in his hand. Against his will, he smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t look too smug, if I were you,” he said, nodding at the smudge on MacLeod’s own cheek where the paint from Methos’s nose had rubbed off. “I’m not the only one who is going to need the turpentine when we get back to town.”

MacLeod just chuckled happily. He went to retrieve his hair tie, which had gone skittering into a corner. Methos watched the graceful body bend down with a mixed up feeling of shame, fear, and inexplicable sadness. “What the hell just happened here, MacLeod?” he said softly.

MacLeod froze in mid-stoop. Methos had a momentary vision of the strong back stiffening, the broad shoulders hunching as if to absorb an expected blow. Then MacLeod scooped the abandoned tie off the ground and straightened up, the moment gone as quickly as it came. “I suppose that really depends on you,” he said casually, shaking the tie to remove the drywall dust it had accumulated. “We could just think of it as an extension of that spar, I suppose. Our Quickenings needing to sort out who was boss. Without resorting to bloodshed.”

Methos felt his lips curl. “Good old-fashioned Quickening lust, then,” he said. “I suppose that would explain it.” MacLeod nodded and pulled his hair back into its habitual ponytail, expertly wrapping the tie around the long dark length. Methos considered not saying the next thing that came into his head, but found he couldn’t help himself. “Except that it felt like more than that.”

MacLeod looked up sharply. “Did it?”

“You know it did.”

“Well.” MacLeod considered this. “You were the one who said this could only happen once, Methos. You can’t blame me for trying to make it memorable. Besides.” He straightened out his shirt with an authoritative little tug. “This wasn’t just sex. I had a point to make.”

Methos’s brow furrowed. “Oh?”

“Yes.” The Highlander saw Methos’s bafflement and smiled. “Just think about it, Methos. You’re a bright guy. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.” He walked to the door. “Come on. Let’s go back to the dojo. I’ve had enough home improvement for one day. And we still have to figure out a way to convince Richie that Kristin is not the Immortal equivalent of his high school Homecoming Queen.”

Methos followed, shielding his eyes as his pupils adjusted to the bright sunshine outside the house. “You could always try grounding him,” he offered, wondering what the heck it was that MacLeod expected him to figure out. Clearly, one of them was overestimating the other’s intelligence. “Tell him he’s not allowed to date six-hundred-year-old women until he’s at least seventy five.”

MacLeod looked sad. “You know, if Tessa was still alive, that’s probably exactly what she’d say,” he said wistfully. “Somehow, I don’t think it will have the same effect coming from me.” He shook his head, banishing the melancholy. “Come on. Let’s go back. I’ll let you have the first crack at the shower.” He smirked. “And the turpentine.”

The rest of the evening passed off with remarkably little discomfort, given the situation. Methos took MacLeod up on the offer of the shower, letting the water stream over his body as he tried to pinpoint just when, exactly, his life had gotten so amazingly out of control. By the time he had finished the shower—discovering no answers—MacLeod had already changed into a sweater and dress pants. More to the point, he had a pot full of pasta bubbling in the kitchen, and the table was set with two plates. They ate companionably enough, until the elevator suddenly started moving, and a third Immortal buzz sang through the loft. “Relax,” MacLeod said. “It’s got to be Richie. He and Amanda are the only ones with keys.”

Surprised, Methos raised his eyebrows. “Amanda needs a key?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” MacLeod admitted. “She generally has much more fun breaking in. I just gave her the key to save wear and tear on my window latches.” Methos gave the expected chuckle and then looked down at his plate, not sure why it bothered him to have Amanda mentioned. MacLeod seemed to catch some of his feelings; he looked at Methos with concern. “Methos…”

“Not now, MacLeod,” Methos said. “Let’s tend to your wayward student first.” The elevator arrived. Richie Ryan stumbled out, shirt bloody and torn. He had the very obvious remains of a sword wound on his back.

It didn’t take too long to get the story out of him. Richie had a young model friend named Maria who wanted to break her contract with Kristin. Kristin was not amused. When Richie tried to intervene on Maria’s behalf, Kristin’s state of intense non-amusement had transferred to him. “She went nuts!” Richie exclaimed, pacing angrily around MacLeod’s living room. “She would’ve killed me!”

“Round two to Kristin,” Methos said caustically. Two Immortal faces regarded him reproachfully. Methos tossed his hands into the air. “Well, what did you expect? You dump her, and then you turn your back on her? Talk about the blind leading the visually challenged!”

MacLeod rubbed his temples as if his head hurt. “Where is she?” he asked.

“Kristin? In her office,” Richie answered. His eyes widened. “Why? You think she’s coming after me?”

“No,” MacLeod said levelly. “I think she’s coming after someone you care about.”

Richie paled so quickly Methos wouldn’t have been surprised to see a vampire munching on his veins. “Maria? Oh, god. I got to go find Maria.” He hurried out the door, tossing a hurried “See you guys later” over his shoulder. 

MacLeod picked up his coat, looking grave. “Where are you going?” Methos demanded.

“Kristin’s.” MacLeod paused, his hand on the elevator button, something unreadable in his eyes. “You coming? I’m sure it’s something you wouldn’t want to miss.”

Methos didn’t argue. He grabbed his coat and sword and followed.

***

MacLeod said nothing on the way to Kristin’s palatial suburban house. He simply drove, chin set with a tense determination that sent warning bells chiming through Methos’s head. When they got there, MacLeod parked the T-Bird and turned to Methos. “Stay in the car.”

“Not a chance.”

“Methos, I’m serious about this. Stay in the car.”

“No. I’m not letting you face her alone.” MacLeod’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. Sighing softly, Methos dug deeply and found a non-sarcastic voice he could use to speak the truth. “I’ll hang back,” he said gently. “Blending into the background is what I do best, after all. She’ll never know I’m there. But if you think I’m just going to stand back while she pulls a gun and shoots you before she takes your head, you have a very big surprise waiting for you.”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“She wouldn’t? Are you sure?” MacLeod looked away. Methos reached out and touched him for the first time since their encounter at the house, his fingers lightly pressing MacLeod’s arm through his coat sleeve. A small tingle of Quickening flowed through his hand. “This has to end tonight, MacLeod,” he said, not without compassion. “Or a lot more mortals are going to be killed.”

“You still don’t understand, do you.” MacLeod shoved the door open and got out, striding towards the conservatory where they both could see a light. They were such strange parting words that Methos hesitated—understand what? What on earth could he be missing? —but there was no way he could ask without shouting. MacLeod was already halfway to the house. Methos shrugged and followed.

He kept his word. He hung back, not interrupting, as MacLeod confronted Kristin in the glass house, demanding to know what Kristin had done with Richie’s friend Maria. Methos kept quiet through the whole conversation, seeing the moment it finally dawned on MacLeod just how insane his former lover had become, and he looked past her body toward the pool. There was a dark shape floating in the water, a shape that was heartbreakingly fragile and human. Kristin shrieked “Forget her!” but neither man was listening; Methos broke into a run, and met MacLeod at the water’s edge. Together, they hauled the young girl out of the water and performed CPR, causing her to spit up a lungful of water. MacLeod waited just long enough for the girl’s breathing to settle into a semi-regular rhythm before he got up again. “Take care of her,” he commanded. And turned on his heel and vanished after Kristin.

Methos cradled the girl to him, instinctively trying to share his body heat while he stared into the shadows, trying to see MacLeod. He was so intent that he didn’t hear the soft steps approaching him until the cautious voice spoke directly in his ear. “Pierson?”

“Jesus Christ!” Methos jumped, causing the girl to go into another fit. He soothed her awkwardly, then turned his head to see Stevenson, looking pale and weary and just as surprised as Methos felt. “Stevenson? What are you doing here?”

“I’m Kristin’s Watcher. I was Watching.” There was no life in Stevenson’s words at all, just a dull, dead acceptance. He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for the Easter Bunny,” Methos snapped. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to keep this young woman from going into shock.” Stevenson simply stared at him. In the distance, there suddenly was the sound of clashing swords. Methos tugged at his hair in frustration. “Look,” he said. “Joe Dawson assigned me as MacLeod’s temporary Watcher three days ago. I followed him here, and found the girl in the pool.” Stevenson seemed to accept this. Methos almost sagged with relief. “Help me get her to her feet, Stevenson. We’ve got to get her someplace warm.”

Stevenson looked doubtful. “We’re not supposed to interfere…”

“Damn you!” Methos swore. Of all the times for the Watcher Oath to bite him on the ass! “The girl needs medical attention. Can’t you see that she’s been drugged?” Stevenson just stood there, digging his toe into Kristin’s immaculately manicured lawn. Methos gave into temptation, stalked over to the man, and shook him by the shoulder. “God damn you, Stevenson,” he hissed into his ears. “Don’t you get it? *This one you can save.*”

Stevenson gulped. After a long, tense moment he nodded, bending to scoop Maria up. Methos waited until he was sure Stevenson had the girl in a secure grip and had started for the street. Then he sprinted in the direction of the clashing swords.

Kristin was on the ground by the time he got there, MacLeod’s katana gleaming as it hovered over her throat. “Do it,” she hissed. “Do it.” Methos skidded to a stop, already wincing as he imagined the death blow and the Quickening that would follow. It would be powerful, he knew. Kristin had lived a long time and had taken way too many warrior’s heads. And it would be painful. The Quickening of an Immortal like Kristin always fought the victor unless she was completely beaten body and soul, and the expression on MacLeod’s face told Methos clearly that he hadn’t truly won. Kristin would be as defiant towards him in death as she had been in life. Her energy would skitter over Duncan’s skin like a hive of bees, stinging, circling, fighting that final surrender. It would feel almost like MacLeod was being flayed alive. But it had to be done. Methos badly wanted to be elsewhere, but he held his ground, knowing that MacLeod would need a strong shoulder the moment it was over. Methos would offer what support he could.

But Duncan didn’t strike. He just stood over Kristin for what seemed an endless time, staring into her face, looking with disdain at her panting body. Then he put the sword away. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my friends,” he ground out. And he turned and walked away.

Methos almost dropped dead in shock.

He couldn’t believe that MacLeod had given up. Did that clueless barbarian child really think what he said made one penny’s worth of difference to a mind like Kristin’s? Did he really think that being bested physically in battle and warned off was enough to keep her away? Such idiocy! Kristin was not a Highland Chieftain brought up to respect the might of arms; tonight’s defeat would simply make her even more ruthless. The young model Maria would be taken care of first, probably murdered in her hospital bed. Then it would be Richie, then everyone else MacLeod had ever been foolish enough to display a fondness for. Doctor Anne and her unborn child. Amanda. Joe. Everyone. There would be no stopping Kristin, now that she had nothing left to lose. And that left Methos with exactly one option. He drew his sword, twisting the heavy blade around in his hand as he prepared to face another Immortal for only the second time in two centuries. “Pick it up,” he grunted.

Kristin barely even bothered to look at him. Why should she? As far as she was concerned, the night was hers. She was still caught up in her defiance of MacLeod, the sweet feeling of getting the best of him one more time. “Who the hell are you?” she said, disdain clear.

And that was it. Old, old voices, ones he had successfully repressed for centuries, suddenly came to the forefront of Methos’s mind. He fought against them for one brief moment, then surrendered. Adam Pierson had no place here. It was time to let something older and infinitely more dangerous take the lead. “A man who was born long before the age of chivalry,” Methos said darkly. “Now. Pick. It. Up.”

He had chosen his words with great care. “A man” he had said, to underline the difference between them, to assert his power before they'd even begun. Kristin had been born and bred to believe men really were stronger than women, and that the only way a woman could compete was to use feminine tricks. “Born before the age of chivalry,” he had said, to underline the fact that he knew exactly which tricks she had used against MacLeod, and that those wiles would have no effect on him. He watched while the words slowly sunk in, making her realize that this impudent stranger really was a threat; her eyes widened when she finally understood that here, at last, was a man she should truly fear. Almost unbelieving, her hand crept toward the sword. Then she charged. 

It was easy, almost laughably so. Kristin was no Kalas. Without conscious thought, Methos’s body parried her ridiculous charge, disarming her in moments and sending her to her knees with his sword through her belly. Out of the corner of his eye, Methos saw Duncan pause and turn around. Methos didn’t hesitate. Mercifully, he pulled the sword free and struck the final blow. Kristin’s head went flying. 

Duncan’s mouth dropped open. In that last moment of eerie calm, that single short instant of peace before the storm broke, Duncan MacLeod’s eyes were all Methos could see: shocked, accusing, filled with unfathomable grief. The shock and accusation Methos could ignore, but the grief spoke to him clearly. Oh, *fuck*. It really hadn’t been chivalry, after all. MacLeod had actually loved Kristin, in his way. In his head, clear as digital recording, Methos heard MacLeod say “I had a point to make” and “You still don’t understand,” and for the first time realized exactly what MacLeod had been trying to tell him all along: whenever MacLeod loved another Immortal, he became their protector, made a covenant with himself to never betray his loved one to the sword. And now Methos had forced him to betray that, as thoroughly as he had betrayed Joe. It didn’t matter that MacLeod hadn’t been the one to wield the sword. He would still bear the guilt. Methos searched desperately for some way to justify himself, to make it right, and failed. All he could do was offer a pale explanation. “Someone had to,” he said.

He knew the words were completely inadequate, but he also knew he wouldn’t have a chance to try again. The energy was already rising in a cloud from Kristin’s headless form, and the first wave of lightning flickered out to strike his chest. He screamed aloud, the sensation so much stronger than he remembered that for a moment he didn’t think he could possibly survive. Then another bolt hit, and another, and another. And then Methos stopped thinking at all.

***

Joe didn’t even bother to turn off the ignition. He just parked his car behind the sedan he dimly recognized as being Stevenson’s rental, threw on the emergency brake, and left the vehicle at a run, moving as quickly as his legs would allow, cursing himself that it wasn’t any faster. The distant sounds of sword clashing against sword simply spurred him on. He was so intent on reaching Kristin’s house that he almost barreled headlong into the figure that was hurrying down the drive. “Stevenson?” he said in disbelief. “What the hell?”

“It’s Maria Alcobar,” Stevenson said, panting under the weight of the very damp young girl draped over his shoulders. “You know. Richard Ryan’s foster sister. She was one of Kristin’s new models.” Joe took a second look at the girl and blanched. She was barely breathing and her skin was very, very cold. “Kristin drugged her, tried to drown her,” Stevenson said. “Pierson told me to take her to the hospital.”

The bottom dropped out of Joe’s world. “Pierson? Adam Pierson is here?”

“Yes.” Stevenson looked at Joe curiously. “Didn’t you know? He said he’d replaced you as MacLeod’s Watcher temporarily.”

“What?” Fuck. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just he doesn’t have much experience with field work. I told him to call me if things got out of control.”

They both saw the first bolt of lightning arch into the sky. An agonized scream split the air. “Well, I’d say things have gotten out of control,” Stevenson said grimly. “Looks like you’re going to have to find me a new assignment, Joe.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t one of the world’s greatest pleasures, Watching Kristin.” The girl over Stevenson’s shoulder started coughing loudly. Stevenson’s face settled into determined lines. “I’d better go, Joe. As Pierson said, this one I can save.” And he hurried down the street to his parked car.

Joe wasted a few precious seconds staring after them, then shook his head: Stevenson and Maria would have to wait. Joe rounded the corner of the house at top speed, heading for the gardens. And for the second time that night, he almost ran headlong into another figure. This one belonged to Duncan MacLeod. 

Joe gaped at him. He could still see the lightning cutting through the sky, could still hear the distant screaming as a powerful Quickening lashed its way into a brand new body. And yet here was MacLeod, looking a little ragged but otherwise undamaged. “Mac?” Joe whispered.

MacLeod shrugged. His eyes were dark, unfocused. “It’s over, Joe.”

“But…it can’t be,” Joe said dully. “Kristin…Adam?”

“I said it’s over, Joe.” MacLeod stumbled away towards the street, leaving a terrified Joe behind. If MacLeod hadn’t Challenged Kristin—the only other Immortal present had been Adam.

Adam, who hadn’t faced a Challenge in more then two centuries.

Adam, who would never have gotten involved in this at all if it hadn’t been for Joe.

Joe hurried forward, dreading what he would find.

*** 

Methos felt cool, grassy dampness pressing into his back as he lay in a crumpled heap on Kristin’s lawn. His entire body was shaking, trembling atop a planet that had become remarkably unstable too, whirling and jerking and threatening to buck him off into outer space. Or maybe it was just his own mind that was shaking, and the fact that the earth appeared to be dipping and twisting like a mad flamenco dancer was only a projection of his inner imbalance. *So long, so long. I’d forgotten…*

A few last bolts of energy snaked to him from the corpse, infinitely weaker than the ones he’d already endured. Embraced. Reveled in, god help him. He heard hurried, shuffling footsteps and a shocked exclamation, then out of the corner of his eye he saw Joe: Joe, ragged and panting, looking about as terrified as Methos had ever seen him. The Watcher waited until the last of the visible energy had dispersed, and then he came to him, bending down to touch his face. “Adam! Oh, god, Adam. I thought…when I saw the lightning and realized MacLeod hadn’t killed Kristin, I thought she’d taken your head instead…”

There was no time to warn him. The energy, eager to find another focus beyond Methos’s exhausted flesh, jumped out of Methos’s skin and struck with a sound like a miniature thunder clap. Joe gasped, the tips of his fingers already blistering. “Sorry,” Methos said weakly, and laughed internally. He really was the master of inadequate apologies today, wasn’t he? But it was much too early to be talking at all. That one word had hurt immeasurably to say, thanks to the rawness of his scream-flayed throat and the less describable agonies everywhere else. Methos really didn’t want to be conscious at all right now, the pain was so bad. But he had to make the effort for Joe, had to say something to explain. “Too….old.” he gasped out. “Can’t absorb it all right away like a youngster. Need time…”

Joe felt a strong terror. The Watcher Chronicles were full of legends about what happened to Immortals who couldn’t fully absorb a Quickening, stories of possession and crippling psychosis and much, much worse. But Adam was staring at him with all the intensity of a drowning man looking at a lifeguard; Joe knew that if he showed any fear, Adam was sure to see. He nodded briskly. “Right,” he said matter-of-factly, as if the Watcher Handbook had covered this thoroughly in the very first chapter, as if helping 5,000 year old lovers absorb another being’s life force was all in a day’s work. “Let’s do what we can to make you comfortable, then.” Joe fumbled in his coat pockets for a pair of gloves, then stripped off the coat itself and awkwardly lowered himself to the ground at Adam’s side, using the thick woolen material to pad the hard edges of his prosthetics. He pulled Adam’s head into his lap. “Better?”

Methos nodded, sighing in relief even as his muscles continue to tremble. Joe started stroking Methos’s forehead, wanting to give as much comfort as he could. He studiously ignored both the thick layer of sweat that clung to Adam’s skin and the little bolts of blue energy that snapped and curled around his gloves. “You idiot,” he said after a moment, harshly tender. “All I ever wanted was for you to make sure MacLeod took care of Kristin. I never intended for you to try to take her head yourself.”

Adam mumbled something. It was impossible to make out the words for certain, but Joe was sure they were something along the lines of “Gee. Now you tell me.” Joe almost sobbed aloud when he heard it. For a few horrible moments there, when he’d seen the lightning arching through the sky, he’d been so sure that he’d never hear Adam’s trademark sarcasm again. He cradled Adam’s damp head even closer, starting to rock back and forth as it began to sink in just how close he’d come to losing him. Adam took a deep breath, with great effort managed to form a single audible word. “MacLeod?”

“Gone,” Joe answered. “He took off.”

He thought he heard Adam swear. A police siren sounded in the distance—somebody must have heard Adam’s screaming and called the cops. Damn. Of all the times for the Seacouver police to actually respond in a timely manner! With a calmness he didn’t feel, Joe gently pushed Adam into a sitting position and laboriously recovered his own feet. “Adam, we have to go,” he said, holding out his hand. “The police are coming. We really need to move.”

For a long moment Joe thought it was going to be impossible. It really looked like Adam didn’t have the strength to stand, let alone walk. But Adam surprised him. Slowly, needing to pause every now and again as yet another tremor ran through his frame, Adam pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Joe. “That’s it, that’s right,” Joe babbled, silently offering God anything he wanted if he would just give Joe enough strength to see them to the car. “Just one step at a time, that’s all we need to do. Just one step at a time.” Adam nodded. They took several steps before Adam tripped. “Shit! Okay, okay, it’s all right. I’ve got you. Steady now. One more step…good. Good.”

Adam clung to him. “This would be a lot easier if the earth would just stay under my feet where it belonged,” he murmured.

Joe froze. “The earth is moving?”

“Wants to throw me off. Can’t blame it. I wouldn’t want me around either,” Adam answered. His voice was clearly coming back now, but it had a strange sing-song quality to it that terrified Joe much more than the rasp. Especially when Adam stretched out one hand to point a shaky, wavering finger at the sky. “Look. The stars are moving too.”

“Okay. Right.” Somehow Joe managed to get them both to take another several steps. “Is anything *not* moving?”

Adam’s smile was sweet and oddly innocent, like a small child’s. “Just you, Joe. At the moment, you’re the one stable thing in the entire universe.”

*And isn’t that a scary thought,* Joe thought to himself as a rough bit of paving almost sent him to the ground with Adam on top of him. He controlled his panic and kept moving on.

It felt like it took a hundred years, but eventually they made it to the car…which still had its door open and its engine running, something Joe was extremely grateful for. He dumped Adam into the passenger’s seat and got the hell out of there, taking off with a shudder and a shriek of tires that would have made him wince under any other circumstances. They hit a red light at the very first intersection. Joe gritted his teeth, desperately wanting to barrel right through. But he could still hear those damn police sirens in the distance, and the last thing they needed was to get pulled over for a traffic violation. Especially since Adam had gotten very quiet and glassy-eyed, wearing a worrisome little smile that Joe could only describe as “stoned”. Had any other Immortal ever been run in for possession after taking a Q? Joe had a sudden image of himself saying “No, Officer, he hasn’t been taking drugs. He just killed a 600 year old woman, that’s all…” and the shudder that went through his body at the thought was enough to make sure he obeyed all the traffic laws. He drove very, very carefully all the way back to the house. 

Getting Adam up the porch steps, through the living room, and onto Joe’s bed was another adventure in prayer and careful balancing, but again they managed without anything worse happening than Adam stepping on Joe’s shoes. For the first time in a long time, Joe was actually grateful that he didn’t have real toes to crush. Adam fell rather than sat on the bed, and stayed more or less where his body had flopped, booted feet dangling off the edge. His teeth were chattering like a set of castanets. “Cold?” Joe asked. 

“Freezing.”

“Right.” Joe nodded in a business like way and started heaping blankets on him, going to strip the guest room bed when Adam’s shivering didn’t abate. When even the guest room quilt didn’t help, Joe went to the closet and started digging for a huge afghan he’d almost forgotten he’d owned. Crocheted out of scratchy yarn in a ghastly shade of pumpkin orange, Joe now blessed his foresight in keeping the thing at all—the heavy wool would be warm, and Adam was already so deeply entombed in blankets that the scratchy yarn couldn’t bother him. The color, however, was an entirely different matter. Adam raised an eloquent eyebrow when Joe dragged it out. “And to think you said my red jeans were too hideous to be allowed to see the light of day,” he murmured.

“Hey,” Joe protested, annoyed on the surface but secretly relieved. It was good to hear Adam say something that sounded so much like Adam. “All I said was that they shouldn't be sprung on innocent bystanders outside of the Christmas holidays. Besides. I didn’t buy this.”

“No?”

“No. Cousin Margie’s eldest daughter crocheted it for me last Christmas. What can I say? I seem to be the kind of guy young women like to make things for.” Joe stood awkwardly, trying to figure out just how best to arrange the afghan over Adam’s body. He finally decided to wrap the thing around Adam’s back and shoulders and arrange the excess over Adam’s legs—there was certainly more than enough material to do so. Margie had once confessed to Joe that her daughter was the sort of crafter who was great at getting projects started but not so good at knowing when to stop. Joe had realized the truth of this when his last birthday present had been a scarf fit for a giraffe. “At least you seem to feeling better,” he said to Adam, tugging the afghan over Adam’s body. “That’s the most coherent sentence you’ve uttered since I picked you up off the ground. You had me worried for a while there. All that talk of stars moving and the world trying to buck you off.”

“It may yet succeed,” Adam said with a groan. “This energy…it’s really fighting me.”

“Yeah. I can see that it is.” Joe stopped his blanket fussing, hands stilling on the orange wool. “Does this mean I need to find you a miniskirt and pair of spike heels?”

Adam snorted, then seemed to think the better of it, wrapping his arms around his chest. “No, don’t make me laugh,” he said. “Not now. I haven’t the strength.” Joe nodded and sat down on the bed, wishing he could think of something more to do. Adam looked at him seriously. “There was never any risk of possession, Joe.”

“No?”

“No. Kristin was very weak, in more ways than one. She had stolen a lot of energy over the years, but no real fire. There was never a chance of her Quickening overpowering mine. I had her beaten before we even crossed swords.”

“Then why all this?” Joe gestured at the blankets. “Why are you reacting so badly to taking her? MacLeod’s never…”

“MacLeod’s never gone two centuries without taking a head, Joe. I’m just out of practice. It will take some time.” Joe nodded, accepting this. Adam looked troubled. “Joe…about MacLeod…”

“I can’t believe he just left you to face her,” Joe said savagely. “He knew how long it had been since you’d fought anyone. Knew how out of practice you were. I can’t believe…” Adam shook then, either a tremor or a silent laugh, Joe couldn’t tell which. He looked at him curiously. “Adam, why did you Challenge her? Surely you couldn’t have known how weak she was until you actually faced her. You were risking so much.”

“It’s very simple, Joe. Kristin had to die. And MacLeod couldn’t kill her.”

“Wouldn’t kill her, you mean.”

“No, Joe. I think ‘couldn’t’ is genuinely the right word.” Adam stirred uncomfortably. “He still loved her, you see.”

“What?” Joe was horrified. “That’s impossible! He must have hated what she’d become.”

“Yes, but it didn’t matter. MacLeod’s an old fashioned romantic, Joe. Once he gives his heart he never asks for it back.” Adam looked suddenly both bitter and sad. “He wouldn’t be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod if he did.”

Joe frowned and then nodded, the pieces starting to fall into place. It did make a kind of sense, if you looked at it through the occasionally cloudy Duncan MacLeod lens. “Love,” he said grudgingly. “As simple as that, eh? I should have known.”

“You and me both.” Under the covers, Adam seemed to turn inwards on himself, his eyes focusing on something Joe couldn’t see. “He tried to tell me, tried to *show* me when all else failed. God, how I’ve messed things up…” He looked up then, his hazel eyes the clearest they’d been all evening, stark and full of pain. “Joe. I have to tell you what happened between us. I have to try to explain…”

“Whoa. Easy there,” Joe said quickly, alarmed by Adam’s intensity. The Immortal’s shivering had redoubled, threatening to shake the bed apart. “Shhh, now. Whatever it is, it can wait. The only thing you have to explain now is how I can help you.”

Adam gave him a sickly smile. “I knew it,” he said softly. “The one damn stable thing in the entire universe, and I have to mess it up. I *deserve* to be bucked off the planet. But perhaps you’re right; perhaps this isn’t the time. I…” He looked again at Joe’s face. “I’m so cold, Joe. Maybe another blanket?”

“You’re already wearing all the blankets in the house, Adam,” Joe said worriedly. “But wait a moment. Maybe if I get our coats…” He ran for the coat tree by the front door, quickly gathering up all the warm garments he possessed, and arranged them carefully over Adam. When he finished, the Immortal looked like he had been buried by an explosion at a church rummage sale. Joe didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Oh, Adam,” he said. 

“It’s all right, Joe. I’ll be fine. I just need time.” Adam eyed the pile on the bed. “And maybe a scarf?”

“Coming right up.”

Joe picked out his best…not Ginny’s birthday effort, but a soft gray cashmere that had been one of Adam’s rare non-musical gifts. He wrapped the scarf around Adam’s neck, carefully keeping his fingers away from the too-conductive Immortal skin. By the time he finished Adam’s shaking had slowed, although his complexion had become very gray. “Joe?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“I may…I think I’ll have to go to sleep now. Don’t worry if I’m out for quite a while, okay? I think…it’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and it’s hard to remember, but I think it’s just part of the way my body copes.” Shaky laugh. “Like I said, I’m not as young as I used to be. Need a lot of time to recover.”

“Yeah. Yeah, so you said.” Joe fussed uselessly with the covers, trying to hide his worry. “Do you have any objection to company under there?”

A sweet smile. “None whatsoever. Mind the shocks.”

“I will.” Joe carefully pulled back a corner of the blanket and coat cocoon so he could roll under it easily once he’d removed his clothes and legs. Any worries he had about being too warm were quickly dispelled by the Immortal’s body temperature: Joe was careful to keep his hands away from his lover’s skin, but even through his clothing Adam felt like ice. Never mind. Joe had certainly slept in worse places. And perhaps the feel of his own body heat and heartbeat might lend Adam some strength that a blanket alone never could. “Adam?”

Adam’s voice was already thick with sleep. Joe could tell he wouldn’t be conscious for long. “Yes, Joe?”

“I missed you.” Joe wrapped his arms around the Immortal waist and closed his eyes.

***

At first Joe’s sleep was light and fitful. Even asleep, his dreaming self never quite forgot that Adam, icy cold and shivering, was in his arms. Joe would fall asleep and dream: “so cold, so cold, got to make him warm.” Then he would wake up just as his hands started to slip under Adam’s sweatshirt, remembering the lightning just in time to stop himself from getting another blister. After several repetitions of this, a Joe that was caught halfway between sleeping and waking said to hell with it. His entire body was craving the feel of Adam’s skin. His need for self preservation could just go take a long jump off a short pier. Joe looked at the clock—it was just after 3 A.M.—and let both his hands slip under Adam’s shirt to his stomach, feeling the strong muscles under the silken skin. Joe might have felt something else…a tingle, maybe, or a tremor…but the worst of the Quickening energy seemed to have subsided. No more shocks, no more burns. With a sigh of pure relief Joe let his whole body go slack against Adam’s back. Yes. This was how it was supposed to be. 

At peace now that he’d corrected unbelievable wrongness of not being able to touch his lover’s skin, Joe instantly fell back asleep. This time his rest was deep and rich with dreams, dreams filled with objects and people he’d never seen. Wine in a crude clay jar. A baby in a fabric sling. A man with a tattooed face, smiling a smile that was both affectionate and frightening. Joe heard music too, more kinds of music than he had ever though existed, the sound of primitive drums under a starry sky segueing effortlessly into a 19th century orchestra playing a Viennese waltz. It all culminated with a dream of Joe lying in Adam’s bed in Adam’s old flat in Paris, the Eiffel tower showing through the window as Adam kissed and caressed Joe’s chest. Joe reached for his face to return the touches, and was startled when the same Quickening fire that had burned him in Kristin’s garden once again crackled from Adam’s skin. Only this time, the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. It was gentle. Caressing. And unbelievably erotic. Joe watched in amazement as the lightning moved over his skin almost playfully, twining through his fingers like a kitten rubbing figure eights through it’s owner’s legs. “Adam?” the dream-him asked. “What is this?”

Dream-Adam answered without a hint of hesitation. “It’s the Quickening, Joe.”

“Kristin’s?”

“Not Kristin’s. Mine.”

“Yours?” Experimentally, Dream-Joe moved his hands over Dream-Adam’s cheek, caressing the line of his jaw. The lightning moved with him and started changing color, now seeming purple, now green, now red. The colors were gorgeous, unearthly. It was a bit like having his own personal Aurora Borealis. “You,” Joe repeated softly. “The deepest part of you. The thing that keeps you alive, the thing that every other Immortal wants. That’s what I’m feeling? It’s really you?”

“Not the me I ever intended to show you,” Dream-Adam answered. “Not the me I ever wanted you to see.” He rolled them over so they were both lying on their sides, bodies settling naturally together, naked skin to naked skin. “An Immortal can’t share this much of himself without sharing much, much more…and Joe, Immortality is not all a gift. It’s not all about the pleasure…”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dream Joe asked. He pressed both his palms flat against Adam’s chest, feeling the rhythmic beating of Adam’s pulse melding with the persistent tickling of the lightning. “I’m not stupid, Adam, and I’m not weak either. Don’t you think I can handle seeing the real you?”

Dream Adam gently removed his hands, placing a kiss on each set of calloused fingers. Joe felt the absence of his heartbeat as an aching loss. “I think a Joe who gets upset about a simple kitchen cut has no idea what he’s getting into,” Adam said. “After all, you can’t even call me by my true name.”

“That’s because it isn’t safe…” Adam’s dream eyebrows arched slightly, and Joe felt the half-lie crumble. “All right,” Joe said weakly. “It’s true. Most of me does still think of you as Adam Pierson, the young man I fell in love with all those years ago. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for Methos in my heart as well. Especially if you actually let me see him for once, instead of hiding.” Adam smiled and brought Joe’s hands back to his heart. An incredible flow of strength and power went through Joe’s body the moment the connection was resumed. It felt like a crackle of static, it felt like a tide of warm water, it felt like the bliss of Joe’s best songs suddenly shifted into tactile form, it felt…like nothing Joe had ever experienced before. “Show me,” he whispered. “Show me.” And Adam smiled again and kissed him, and suddenly Joe was lost.

Lost in a tide of images as well as sensations, memories so real that Joe could barely believe they weren’t his own. He was aware of the dream-Adam making love to him tenderly, carefully slipping fingers into his body in preparation for a deeper joining, but that was nothing compared to the sights and feelings that were parading through Joe’s head. He saw a tiny boat bobbing on a vast green sea, smelled beer fermenting in the shadow of a half-built pyramid. He watched a man in a monk’s habit—Darius?—laugh as Adam’s long fingers moved a chess piece, checkmating his king. He saw sunrises…so many sunrises!...and he saw blood…oh, god, so much blood, spurting from severed heads and limbs, seeping from the whip marks on a slave’s back, trickling from a knife blade placed against a willing lover’s skin. He felt Quickenings possess his body with indescribable ecstasy and pain, then vanish to leave only the hollow triumph of having lived to fight again…and yet again. He felt tenderness and ruthlessness and savagery and joy. And through it all, there was loneliness…ameliorated from time to time, but never fully banished…a loneliness that cried out *who am I?* and *why am I different?* and *what’s it all for?* over and over again. Joe’s heart reeled with the violence of some of the images he saw, but the lonely cry of that voice never left him, and as Adam finally slid into his body Joe knew with a flash that the only thing that truly set Adam apart from the rest of mankind was that he was so human. So not what humans liked to think they were but so much what they REALLY were that he truly was doomed to eternal loneliness, for what kind of man could ever look at him, truly look at him, without seeing his own humanity reflected back? Joe himself didn’t know how long he could stand to look in that mirror, and as his body finally soared up into orgasm he found himself welcoming it, not just for the pleasure, but also for the end of this weird joining that the release would bring. He needed to end this, needed to think, needed to come to terms with what he’d been shown…

Joe woke up groggy and damp with sweat, staring in confusion at a bedroom that was clearly in Seacouver instead of Paris. As he completed his crawl back to consciousness he realized that his hands had crept from Adam’s waist to his chest while he slept, and that Adam’s heart, unlike the steady beat he’d felt in the dream, was now fluttering under his fingers like a jack rabbit’s. Not only that. The skin that had been icy cold was now glowing with heat, soaking the Immortal’s clothes and hair with sweat. “Adam?” Joe asked. “Adam?”

There wasn’t so much as a flicker to indicate that Adam had heard. Joe shouted, patted his cheeks, and even resorted to slapping him when all else failed. Adam simply would not wake up. Confused and frightened now, Joe plucked at Adam’s damp clothes in distress, trying clumsily to remove them before Adam became chilled. He got stuck when Adam’s pants refused to slide off over his feet, and realized rather shame-facedly that he’d never thought to remove the Immortal’s boots. Joe shook his head and pulled himself to the foot of the bed, determined to correct this oversight. 

Only the laces wouldn’t come undone. Still haunted by the strange feelings from the dream, Joe spent several fruitless moments pulling at the loops with his fingers before it dawned on him to take a closer look. Even then, it took him several minutes of confused staring before what he was seeing actually made it through to his tired brain. 

The laces had melted. Not only had the knots melted together, making them impossible to untie, but the laces had fused to each of the boot’s metal eyelets, too. Joe started to shake. It was such a simple little thing…but it was exactly the kind of simple little thing that put everything else into perspective. The little bits of melted lace spoke eloquently of the kind of power that had surged through Adam’s body every time he’d taken a head, what he’d survived over and over again for thousands of years. Joe suddenly knew, beyond a doubt, that there was no way he could even begin to understand such an experience. By pretending otherwise he was only hurting them both. He stared at his lover for a moment, mourning silently, than resolutely pulled himself over to the phone and dialed. 

It only took a few rings for the person on the other end to pick up. “MacLeod.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Joe hesitated. It had been so long since they had spoken naturally to each other; what could he say? He decided to go with simplicity. “Mac, this is Joe. I need your help.”

MacLeod must have heard his desperation, because he didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’m on my way,” he said, in such a calm, concerned way that it was almost as if the last several months hadn’t happened at all. “Where are you? At the bar?”

“No. No, I’m at home.” Joe ran a hand agitatedly through his disheveled hair. “I have Adam here…”

“Oh.” The concern left MacLeod’s voice as quickly as it had come, replaced by a cold disdain. “I should have known he’d go crying to you. Tell him that I’m really not interested in talking to him, Joe.”

Joe bit back angry words. “Well, you’re in luck then, Highlander,” he said, contenting himself with a bitter laugh. “He’s not in a condition to talk to anyone. He’s unconscious.”

“What do you mean, unconscious?”

“I mean unconscious. Comatose. Breathing, but unable to speak or move under his own power. Not responding to stimulus…”

“Oh, no.” MacLeod groaned. “How long has he been out?”

Joe checked his watch. It was much later than he’d thought. He must have slept a long, long time. “Almost 14 hours now,” he said. “He wasn’t…right…after the Quickening. He started babbling about the ground moving and the world trying to buck him off. After I got him home he said not to worry, that all he needed was sleep, but I don’t think he’s sleeping any more. I can’t wake him up even for a moment, and he has the worst fever I’ve ever seen.” Joe swallowed. “Mac, last night he said something about being too old to take the Quickening the way a youngster would. I’m really worried something’s gone wrong.”

“I’ll be right over, Joe.”

And he was. The Highlander arrived less than twenty minutes later. Joe had gotten dressed and spent the rest of the time cutting off Adam’s now-ruined boots and replacing his sweaty clothes with a robe out of Joe’s own closet. Joe had thought about throwing away the hiking boots, given that they were no longer fit to wear. But somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he’d left them in the middle of the bedroom floor, where MacLeod promptly stumbled over them the moment he entered. The Highlander took one look at the boots and smiled ruefully. “Laces melted, huh,” he said.

“Yeah.” Joe said shortly. It didn’t seem fair that something that had shaken him so badly should be so matter-of-fact to MacLeod. “Let me guess. Happens to you all the time?”

“Not to me,” MacLeod answered smugly, putting the boot back down. “Whenever I buy new shoes I always make sure to replace the laces with either cotton or leather. I haven’t run into a man-made fiber yet that wouldn’t melt during a Quickening.”

“I see. Well, the last time Adam took a Quickening, nylon hadn’t been invented yet,” Joe said. “Can’t really blame him for not thinking about it ahead of time.” MacLeod ignored this, and carefully pried open each of Adam’s eyelids in turn, looking into pupils so dilated there was no hazel at all to be seen surrounding the black. Joe fidgeted as MacLeod felt first Adam’s forehead and then his wrists. “How is he?”

“Not well,” MacLeod said, sighing as he bent and slid one arm under the unconscious Immortal. Carefully, MacLeod lifted Adam’s unresisting body from the bed and started maneuvering him toward the door. 

“Hold it,” Joe said, limping to stand between the Highlander and the door. “Just where do you think you’re taking him?”

“Back to my place, Joe.”

“Why?” Joe felt a cold fear. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“The Quickening still hasn’t settled.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I assure you it is,” MacLeod said, with just a trace of humor. “I could feel it the moment you let me into the house. Any Immortal could.”

“Feel what, exactly?”

“The way his Quickening is fluctuating. It’s strong one second, almost non-existent the next.” The Highlander looked bleak. “That tells me that the energy he took from…the energy he took on last night is still fighting him. He hasn’t absorbed it fully.”

“But that’s not right. He told me last night that Kristin had surrendered to him completely. And he isn’t sending off sparks anymore. I was sure that meant--.”

“He was sending off sparks?” MacLeod looked horrified. “What kind of sparks? When?”

Joe shrank into himself, alarmed by the Highlander’s alarm. “Little bits of blue lightning,” he said. “Every time I touched his skin.” MacLeod swore under his breath, and started back for the door. Once again, Joe stood in his way. “MacLeod,” he said, in a quiet, deadly voice he hadn’t used since Vietnam. “You aren’t taking him anywhere.”

MacLeod blinked. For a moment he stared at Joe in confusion; Joe stared back, unmoving. At last the Highlander softened. “Joe,” he said more kindly. “I have to take him. For your sake as much as his. When a Quickening doesn’t settle—“ He paused, groping for words. “Strange things can happen. It isn’t safe.”

*No,* Joe thought, thinking about the blisters that still smarted on his hands, and the vividness of his dreams. *Not safe at all.* He took a deep breath. “Can you help him?”

The Highlander looked unhappy. “I’ll be honest with you, Joe. I don’t know. Not for sure. Connor once told me about something like this happening to Ramirez, so I know a few things I can try. But mostly, Methos just needs time. I can give him a safe place to be while he recovers on his own.”

“Safe?” Joe laughed aloud. “You expect me to believe that he’s safer with you than with me? Last night you certainly gave me the impression that there was no love lost between you.”

MacLeod winced. “He killed Kristin, Joe.”

“Yeah, I know. Unless I’m mistaken, she had just tried to kill Maria Alcobar and Challenged you. Right after she forced Richie to jump out a twentieth story window in order to keep his own head attached.”

“Joe. You are talking about something you can’t possibly understand.”

“Maybe,” Joe admitted. “All I know is that Adam has spent the entire week trying to protect you and Richie from Kristin. And then, when you left him no choice but to take her head himself, you abandoned him to face the Quickening alone. Did it never occur to you to wonder why it’s been two hundred years since he’s done this? Did you never stop to think that something like this could happen?” MacLeod made a frustrated sound. “So now, after he’s spent the night enduring god knows what kind of pain, you show up here…”

“*You* called *me*, Joe.”

“To tell me what to do to help him! Not to take him away!” Joe crossed his arms over his chest. “How do I know you really want to help him? How do I know you aren’t just hauling him off to take his head someplace where this dumb old mortal can’t interfere?”

The Highlander looked shocked. “Joe,” he said in disbelief. “You know me. You’ve Watched me for more than fifteen years. Do you really think I would do that?” Joe didn’t answer right away. MacLeod’s jaw dropped. “You do. You really think I would.”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. He suddenly felt tired and very, very old. “I really don’t think I know much of anything, anymore.”

He saw MacLeod take a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself. “Relax, Joe,” he said after a moment, bitingly calm. “Unlike some Immortals I could mention, I do have a fixed set of rules that I live by. I don’t break my word. If I say Methos is safe with me, I mean it.”

“Right.” Joe scoffed. “And I should believe that because?”

The Highland eyes darkened. “Because I don’t kill people I’ve taken to my bed,” he said. “No matter what.”

***

*This is what it’s like* Joe thought about two minutes later, when his dazed mind had recovered enough to think. *This is what it must feel like to take a sword blow through the heart. It’s a bit like being shot, only sharper, more defined. You can feel the flesh being torn…* “Taken to your bed,” he repeated softly. It sounded like his voice was coming from very far away. “You mean you…and Adam…”

“Not me and Adam. Me and Methos,” MacLeod corrected. The distinction seemed very important to him.

“Right. You and Methos.” Joe repeated the words dully. “Where did you…*when* did you…?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Joe. It certainly isn’t any business of the Watchers.” Joe closed his eyes, filled with a pain so intense he wondered why his heart didn’t just stop beating. When he opened them again, MacLeod’s face was pale. “I…sometimes it happens like this with Immortals, Joe,” he said, sounding apologetic and very, very uncomfortable. “We’re not all, ah…I mean sometimes we…well, after a few hundred years, gender doesn’t really seem so important...” He swallowed awkwardly. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

*Dear god,* Joe thought. *He thinks I’m upset to discover he’s bi. He can’t even imagine any other reason.* The small part of Joe that was disconnected enough from the tragedy to think marveled that he and MacLeod could have been through so much together and yet know each other so superficially. The rest of him simply hurt too much to care. “Well,” he said after a long moment, one that stretched on with all the agonizing eternity of a set of fingernails being scraped across a blackboard. “Far be it for me to try to understand the mysterious ways of Immortality. I’ve only been a Watcher for nearly all my adult life. How much could I possibly know?” MacLeod exhaled gustily, clearly pushed to the limits of his patience. Joe stepped aside. “Take him, then. Help him if you can. But I warn you. If any harm comes to him under your care, I will come for your head myself.” He shivered. “Remember. I’m not James Horton’s brother in law for nothing.”

MacLeod stared at him, mouth open. Then he nodded curtly. He carried Adam…Methos…out to the T-Bird without saying another word, pausing only to pick up Methos’s overcoat and sword from Joe’s couch. Joe noticed that MacLeod placed Methos very carefully in the passenger’s seat, buckling the seatbelt tenderly around his waist. Then he got in the driver’s seat and started the car, guiding the T-Bird away from the curb and into the flow of traffic with great gingerness. It was almost as if he thought Methos was a bundle of eggs that might break if jarred. Almost as if he found him…precious.

Joe watched them drive away.

***

Methos was drowning, caught in a riptide of dreams. He knew that he was sleeping, that consciousness was hovering just above the water over his head, but no matter how he tried he couldn’t kick free. Shards of Quickening fire were everywhere, lancing down through the water like arrows, then becoming solid and floating up like seaweed. They tangled in his feet and hands, dragging him down to the very bottom of the ocean floor, where the water suddenly became full of images, pictures that flickered and floated like the work of some mad cinema projectionist. Methos saw himself fighting an unknown dark-haired foe. Watched himself fall to his knees while a thousand faces from his past laughed and jeered. Looked on in astonishment as the faces blurred and combined to become just one: the face of Joe Dawson, looking at him sadly from across a great distant. Methos tried to reach out to him, but the Quickening seaweed held him firm, and when he tried to speak his voice transformed into a rush of oxygen bubbles. Joe shook his head sorrowfully and limped away. And all Methos could do was watch.

He woke up to a feeling of intense weirdness and displacement, despite the fact that his body was relatively comfortable and relaxed. *Well, THAT was strange,* Methos thought to himself as he stretched lazily, feeling the softness of a very plump pillow against his cheek. *God knows I’m used to nightmares. Five thousand years of trauma has to express itself somehow. But that was…different. Vivid. Weird. And what was Joe doing there at the end? Looking at me sadly, turning his back…all right, so I don’t exactly need Sean Burns to interpret the symbolism. But I haven’t had that sort of dream about Joe since right after he sent me that photo of him with his Cousin Margie. Wonder what brought it up now?* Methos stretched again, this time adding a languid yawn. *Never mind. If I spent all my time trying to unravel the idiosyncrasies of my own subconscious mind I’d never get anything done. It’s morning. Looks like I made it through another night with my head intact. Time to take the inventory, make sure it stays that way for another day. Where am I? Who is with me, friend or foe? Am I sure? Is my sword still where I left it?*

He opened his eyes, looked at the room around him, and suddenly felt cold. His waking-up questions were automatic, had been ever since Methos had first started asking them in a language no one alive now had ever even heard of, let alone spoke. The problem was, he was usually more certain of the answers.

*Ooookay,* he thought, shutting his eyes again and sliding back under the covers, trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible until he understood what was going on. *Let’s take things one at a time, shall we? My current name is Adam Pierson; the year is 1987. Which means I should be in my bed in Paris, the one with the feather duvet and the single annoying squeaky spring. Instead I appear to be…* He let his hand slip to the edge of the platform he was lying on, feeling the texture and the shape… *lying on a rather nice leather couch with my feet sticking off the edge, draped with a wool blanket I’m fairly sure I’ve never owned. If I open my eyes I should see that Ansel Adams poster I placed on the ceiling, not…* He opened his eyes again, cautiously taking a look at room’s roof. *Not rough wood and beams. I should be wearing boxers or pajama bottoms, not this…* He plucked at the completely unfamiliar garment loosely wrapped around his body…*very battered terry cloth robe, which was obviously intended for someone both shorter and heavier than me. And…* He finally risked sitting up, sneaking a peak over the back of the couch. *…and unless somebody stole all my furniture and did some massive remodeling while I was asleep, this is not my flat. The kitchen isn’t all that different, but I have much better taste in art. And I sure as hell don’t remember having an elevator.*

*This cannot be good.*

*This is, in fact, very, very bad.*

*Where the hell am I?*

A door opened and closed softly in the distance. Methos closed his eyes and threw himself down flat. In the unfamiliar room on the unfamiliar couch covered by the unfamiliar blanket, one thing was suddenly much *too* familiar: the buzz of another Immortal. Methos let his hand creep out from under the blanket to the floor beside the couch, sagging with relief when he felt the cool touch of metal in the expected place. His hand closed around the comforting grip of his Ivanhoe, fingers taking a moment to reassure themselves that the burnished pattern of gold lines and dots was indeed the one he remembered. Only then did he allow himself to sit up and face the intruder.

The buzz belonged to a tall man who was a complete stranger to Methos, although Methos had the nagging suspicion that he should at least recognize his face. He had brown eyes, a mane of long dark hair gathered into a Celtic clip, and was humming softly to himself as he heaped aromatic grounds into a coffee maker. When he saw Methos stir he smiled, although Methos got the feeling the expression was a bit forced. “Well. Look who’s awake,” he said. “Welcome back. You were gone a long time.”

“Was I, now,” Methos said coldly, swinging his feet to the floor. As he stood up, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he didn’t make the most menacing picture in the world. The faded blue terry cloth of the strange robe was hanging off his shoulders as loosely as a scarecrow’s overalls, and his knobby knees were protruding awkwardly from the hem. Never mind. Clothes and face paint were useful trappings, but not absolute necessities. Menace was something Methos could add to the mix all by himself. He started approaching the other Immortal stealthily, sword in hand.

“Yes, you were,” the stranger said, turning his back on Methos to rifle through the cupboard on the back wall. *Idiot!* Methos thought. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. “You were unconscious for almost three days. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up.” The stranger pulled out a box of what looked like cereal, frowned at it and started digging deeper into the cupboard, all the while failing to notice Methos’s steady approach. “Do you want something? Coffee will be ready in a few minutes, or I could make you some tea. And of course there’s always beer, but even you usually wait to get started on that until later in the day…oh, finally! I knew I’d put these somewhere.” The stranger made a small sound of triumph and emerged with a package of English muffins. And promptly found the tip of Methos’s sword against his throat.

Methos had to give the strange Immortal credit. He didn’t get angry, and he didn’t panic. He just sagged in a very tired kind of way and let his arms spread wide in surrender, the package of baked goods dangling from his hand. “Oh, no, here we go again,” he muttered. “All right, Methos. I give in. You might as well tell me what I’ve done wrong this time. Is there something about English muffins that offends your moral sensibilities? Or did I put too much coffee in the maker?”

*Methos.* The old Immortal swallowed, trying desperately to force some moisture into his suddenly very dry throat. “You know my name,” he said.

The pony-tailed one blinked. “Well, of course I do,” he said. “Is *that* what this is about? I know your real name, so now I must die? Don’t you think you should have thought of that a year ago?” The dark brown eyes narrowed. “Or has taking Kristin’s head reminded you that you really do have a taste for Quickenings after all, and now you’re determined to take mine too? Even if you know you can’t absorb all of it?”

“I—” The point of the sword wavered slightly. Methos bit down on his lip, suddenly having the uncomfortable feeling of being a man in a boat lost a long way from the shore. “Quickening?” he said weakly.

The strange Immortal stared at Methos as though he’d lost his mind. “Yes, Quickening,” he said. “Kristin’s Quickening. Don’t you remember?” Methos didn’t answer. “You don’t, do you. Oh, god. I should have known there would be some memory loss. Methos…”

“Stop talking, please.” Methos’s head was spinning. He felt stiff and tired and very, very dizzy. All of which could easily be the aftermath of taking a Quickening, he supposed. If only he could get his mind to focus! Methos forced his lips into a frighteningly pleasant smile, and this had the desired effect. The other Immortal shut his mouth at once, looking at Methos with the first hint of true alarm Methos had seen since this little encounter began. “Thank you,” Methos said imperiously. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, questions that you are going to answer with a minimum of extraneous chatter. Are we agreed?” His captive nodded. “Very well. Let’s start with the basics. Where am I?”

“Seacouver.”

“Seacouver?” Methos frowned. He risked taking a quick look over his shoulder at the cityscape outside the window. There was the tip of a tall building in the distance, a building whose shape he knew. “The Galaxy Tower,” he said musingly. “Not the Eiffel. This really is Seacouver, not Paris.” He turned back to the stranger. “Why aren’t I in Paris?”

“I don’t really know,” the other man answered softly. “You just sort of showed up on my doorstep. I thought at the time that you’d come to warn me about Kristin being in town, but now I’m not so sure…” He trailed off, looking up at Methos with anxious eyes. “Methos? Don’t you remember *any* of this?”

“I’m the one asking the questions.” Methos said, pressing the sword more firmly against the stranger’s throat to point up his words. His captive swallowed and nodded carefully. “Good. Next question. Who the hell are you?”

“Duncan.”

“Duncan?” Methos ran the name through his mental databank of Immortal identities, cross-referenced it with the face in front of him—familiar, now, from the times he’d seen it in the Chronicles and pinned up over various female Watchers’ desks—and mentally sagged. Seacouver. Duncan. Pony Tail. Joe. Somehow, he’d managed to end up holding a sword on Joe Dawson’s permanent assignment. “Oh, *shit*,” he said. “You’re Duncan MacLeod.”

“The one and only,” MacLeod answered with just a hint of humor. “Do you think you could put the sword down now, Methos? If you know my name, than surely you know enough about me to realize weapons won’t be necessary.”

Methos conceded the point. Joe and Darius had both made it clear that the younger MacLeod was a Boy Scout first class, unlikely to try for a stranger’s head just because he could. Methos let the sword droop as he retreated several steps across the kitchen, although he kept a good grip on the pommel just in case. He raised his free hand to his temples, which had started to throb. “I don’t remember *you*,” he said. “All I remember is things *about* you. Your…reputation, you might say.”

“What Darius told you, you mean,” Duncan said with understanding. “And what you read in my Watcher Chronicle.”

Methos’s head snapped up. “You know about the Watchers?”

“Oh, dear.” Duncan looked incredibly weary. “You really have lost a big chunk of time, haven’t you.” He started to walk forward. Methos instantly raised the sword in warning. Duncan backed off, hand raised. “All right, all right, take it easy,” he said. “I just want to ask you a few things so I know how best to help you. Let’s start at the beginning. What year do you think this is?”

Some instinct made Methos parry the question the same way he would parry a sword thrust. “What year do *you* think it is?”

Duncan was unmoved. “Oh, no you don’t, Methos,” he said. “I’m not going to play that game. I need to know how much time you’ve lost if I’m going to help you, and I know that if I tell you what year it is first you’re just enough of a bastard to muddy things so I never figure it out for sure.” Stung, Methos took a step back. This strange Immortal clearly knew him better than he’d guessed. “So,” Duncan said. “One more time. What year is it? What’s the last date on the calendar you remember?”

Methos sighed. Might as well give in. “February 17th. 1987.”

“Oh.” The Highlander covered his face with his hands for a quick moment. When he dropped them again the corner of his mouth was twisted wryly, a humor that didn’t even begin to reach his eyes. “You have a lot of things to catch up on, my friend. Let’s see. Where should I begin?” He thought for a long time, a time that had Methos shifting uncomfortably against the kitchen cabinets, terribly frightened by what he was about to hear. “Okay. I have it. Once upon a time there was an Immortal named Kalas...”

***

It was nearly three days before Joe Dawson heard from Duncan MacLeod, a time that saw Joe experiencing every emotion from intense rage to intense despair. Strangely, he didn’t reach for the bottle to console him. It would have been easy to do it--so damn easy to drown himself in a bottle of Scotch, and let the alcohol numb away the pain with its usual simplistic perfection. Then, perhaps, he could have gotten through an entire day without sinking into depression every time he saw an empty bottle of beer.

But he didn’t. Why? Part of it was because half of Joe really did expect Adam to show up at any moment, walk through his front door with a witty quip that would infuriate Joe but would nonetheless instantly explain the whole situation and make it all right. The other, more realistic, half had a better reason. Seeking comfort in the scotch bottle now would have too closely resembled his mourning rites. And while his and Adam’s love affair was certainly dead…how the hell could Joe hope to compete with someone like MacLeod?...Adam himself was not. No matter how often Joe tilted from anger to desolation, Joe couldn’t bring himself to wish that he was…and starting the rites seemed like making it a foregone conclusion that Adam would never wake up. So Joe went to work, ate a lot of very bad takeout, and stayed far away from both alcohol and his guitar. And waited for MacLeod to call.

Eventually, he did. “He’s awake, Joe.”

It was staggering, the sweetness of the relief Joe felt in that moment. Even his mixed-up, extraordinarily ambivalent feelings toward MacLeod didn’t really poison it. “Thank god,” he said fervently. “How is he?”

“He’s…” MacLeod sounded hesitant. “Physically he’s fine, Joe. Walking and talking and eating like a pig.”

“Yeah?” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “And what about non-physically?”

“He’s…” A heavy sigh. “He’s got amnesia, Joe. The Quickening has taken some of Methos's memories. Several years of memories. He doesn’t remember taking Kristin’s head, or why he’s here in Seacouver, or even what happened with Kalas when we first met. He…” MacLeod’s voice hitched. “When he first came to and felt my presence, he reached for his sword. He had no idea who I was.”

Joe heard the pain that was so obviously evident in the Highlander’s voice, and dropped his head. *Ironic,* he thought. *So he’s betrayed both of us, then. One unintentionally, one intentionally…or was sleeping with Mac just as accidental as the side effects of the Quickening? Maybe he couldn’t help himself. Maybe I should have known from the beginning that sooner or later he’d turn to his own kind, someone who could give him all the things I can’t. Oh, Adam. I wish I understood…* “I’m sorry, Mac,” he said, and it was a measure of the depth of Joe Dawson’s character that, despite the pain he was in, he still managed to make the words sincere. “That must hurt a lot.”

“Yeah.” MacLeod seemed unwillingly to speak about it further, and Joe, equally awkward, didn’t push. “Anyway,” the Highlander continued after a long moment. “He’s back on his feet now, and the memory loss seems to be the only lingering effect. Will you come?”

“He wants to see me? He remembers who I am?”

“He still thinks you own that bookstore on Juniper Street, and he seems constantly baffled by the fact that I know you too, but yeah, he remembers you.” There was a brief pause, then: “I think it would be good if you could come by this afternoon, Joe. The world’s a very strange place for Methos right now. Too much has happened that he doesn’t recall, and I—I’m afraid I don’t know enough to help him fill in all the gaps. Maybe you can.”

“I’ll be there at eight.”

And so here Joe was, ascending in MacLeod’s creaky old elevator, wondering just what he was going to find at the top. When the grate slid up and Joe got his first look at the loft, he immediately knew that MacLeod had spoken the truth. Adam really wasn’t the same. The loft was as neat as a pin, with none of the scattered books and papers that always accumulated in Joe’s living room whenever Adam was in residence. Adam’s familiar black duffle bag was resting in the corner with a few paperback books neatly stacked on top and an even neater pile of laundry stacked beside that. Joe recognized the cream sweater Adam had worn the day they’d eaten at Puleo’s, and had to restrain a sudden, completely insane, moment of jealousy directed toward MacLeod’s washing machine. It disappeared the moment he saw Adam himself, the tidiest thing of all, his short hair combed instead of tousled and his jeans clean and actually pressed. The moment he saw Joe he gave him a tiny smile that held both affection and great unease. “So it really *is* you,” he said. “Hello, Joe. I—it’s good to see you again.”

“Hello, Adam,” Joe returned. “It’s good to see you, too.” Adam nodded awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his pockets the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. Joe looked around the loft. “Where’s MacLeod?”

“Out,” Adam answered. “I asked him to give us some space, until I knew…well, until we could have a chance to talk.” His eyes settled slowly on Joe, looking him over from head to toe. “I couldn’t believe it when Duncan told me you were the one who witnessed the Quickening, you see. It just didn’t seem possible that the Joe Dawson Duncan kept telling me about could really be the same one I remembered.”

“Didn’t it?”

“No. It seemed…downright impossible, in fact. But I’m slowly beginning to accept the fact that a lot of the things I once thought impossible have happened over the last nine years. I—” Methos trailed off, seeing Joe assume an expression that was normally only worn by people who had just been hit over the head with something blunt. “Joe?”

“I’m fine. I just need to sit down for a minute.” Joe stumped his way over to the couch, sat heavily down. Nine years. No wonder Adam couldn’t believe it was really him. Nine years ago Joe had still been acting like a homophobic idiot who’d been treating Adam like a bad rash, actually grateful for the ocean in between them. Adam clearly didn’t remember anything of their reunion, didn’t remember the night Joe had learned he was Immortal, didn’t remember the time they’d spent together after Joe had learned just which Immortal he was. Their entire second love affair had been lost. Across the room, Adam was looking at him with concern, clearly on the verge of crossing to his side; Joe waved a hand to forestall him, pasting on a sickly smile. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “I just…it came as a bit of a surprise. Nine whole years? Just gone?”

“The Quickening took it. It happens like that sometimes with the powerful ones,” Adam answered. “It’s probably a kind of protective mechanism, sort of like the way some women can’t remember the pain of giving birth, or the way most people experience amnesia after a significant trauma. The short-term memory gets erased…”

“Short term? Nine years is short term?” Joe said, then frowned. “I guess maybe it is short term for you, isn’t it.” Adam said nothing, neither confirming nor denying this, and Joe couldn’t repress a sigh. The fact that for Adam, nine years was just the blink of an eye, was just one more example of the differences between them, the gulfs that could never be crossed. He frowned. “Adam, what about your journals? Surely when you get back to Paris you’ll be able to read them. Find out what you’ve missed.”

Adam blinked. “You know about my journals?”

“Well, of course I do.” Joe said, taken aback. “It’s not like you’ve ever let me read them or anything, but yeah. I know you’ve been keeping a journal practically since writing began.”

“Amazing,” Adam murmured, and when Joe looked at him curiously a bit of pink touched the Immortal’s cheeks. “Sorry, Joe. I’m still getting used to how much about me—the real me, not Adam Pierson me— Duncan knows, and now I find you know about my journals. After living completely in secret for the better part of four centuries, it’s…very strange, this notion that I’ve shared so much.” Adam shrugged, an unconsciously boyish gesture. “I’m afraid the answer is no. One of the last things I DO remember doing was putting all my personal computer files under very heavy encryption, and making a firm bargain with myself to change the password every month. Oh, I’m sure I’ll find a way to hack in eventually, but given the way computer technology seems to have changed…” He spread his hands helplessly, and Joe nodded sourly, remembering the old DOS computers that had largely disappeared. “That might take a while,” Adam finished. “So, for now…”

“You’re on your own.” Joe finished. “It’s gone, then. Really gone.” Adam nodded solemnly. Joe looked down at his lap. “Adam, how much do you really remember, then? About us?”

“I remember Don losing me to you in a poker game,” Adam said softly. “I remember spending two very happy months helping you set up the bookstore on Juniper Street. And I remember every moment of what happened between us the night before I left. The bar you took me to, the music you played, what happened after you took me home. Everything.” Joe felt his throat close. “But,” Adam went on resolutely, “I also remember what you said the next morning, and a certain Christmas card with a photo enclosed. And I remember coming to terms with the fact that you didn’t want me in your life.”

Joe found himself with a dry, sandpapery mouth, and lips that didn’t want to work. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Adam nodded. “You don’t have to worry, Joe. I know that from your perspective it all happened a really long time ago. I know you must have moved on. I’m not going to force my attentions on you just because…for reasons I confess I still don’t entirely understand…my life has somehow gotten tangled up with your assignment.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it when Duncan said that you were such a major part of my life, probably knew more about my day-to-day dealings than he did. Couldn’t believe it when he said we were friends.” The Immortal stared at Joe, hazel eyes completely naked, for once, of any attempt to hide his true feelings. “Was he right? Are we friends now?”

Joe opened his mouth, knowing that here was his moment, his opportunity to tell the truth—and then he shut it again, a series of vivid images flashing before his eyes. Images of a pair of hiking boots, the laces melted and fused. Images of a delirious Adam burning up with fever, hot and sweaty and impossible to wake. And finally an image of Duncan MacLeod, buckling the seat belt so tenderly around Adam’s unconscious body in the car. *Not meant to be, never meant to be,* Joe thought, sadness threatening to drown him. *Mortal and Immortal lives were never meant to mesh this closely. I’m not good for him; I can’t help him through his bad times, can’t be everything he needs a partner to be. Not the way MacLeod can. I could try to fill him in, tell him about the last two years, tell him how much we were in love…but what good would it do? Maybe this memory loss is a blessing in disguise. Maybe it simply spares us the pain of saying the truth out loud. We don’t belong together. And nothing I can say will change that.* Joe swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re friends now,” he said. And said goodbye to Adam…his Adam…in exactly the same moment.

Methos smiled, an innocent, uncomplicated smile that reminded Joe so much of the Adam Pierson he had fallen in love with that his heart began to bleed. “I’m glad,” Methos said warmly, then leaned forward with an impish twinkle. “So, how did you react when Duncan told you who I was? It must have been a shock. Your assignment finds the real Methos, and it turns out to be this long-lost person from your past…”

*Yeah. Quite a shock,* Joe thought, feeling his heart sink. *This is a good thing,* he told himself resolutely. *What was it he said about the Quickening memory loss being like traumatic amnesia? Maybe our relationship was a trauma that needed to be forgotten just as badly as the sensation of lightning coursing through his body. Maybe a huge mistake is being erased. We can both forget, and he can go on.*

*With MacLeod.*

Methos was still waiting patiently for his response. Joe forced himself to smile. “It certainly was a surprise,” he said. “The worse part was discovering that I’d helped put you in charge of researching yourself. Took me a while to forgive you for that one.”

“I’m sorry.” Methos looked honestly contrite. He stared at Joe for a moment, and Joe wondered just how many of his true emotions were showing on his face. “But you did forgive me?” the Immortal asked anxiously. “Tell me you forgave me, Joe.”

“Yeah,” Joe said gruffly. “I forgave you.”

The boyish smile flashed again, tinged with relief, as Methos finally allowed himself to take a seat next to Joe. *Friends,* Joe thought. *Just friends.*

And he proceeded to give his new friend a highly edited version of everything he’d missed.

 

**_Seacouver, Early November, 1995_ **  
**_~One Month Later~_ **

 

Methos first spoke to Alexa Bond in the alleyway behind Joe’s Bar. It was a rainy Seacouver Tuesday night, approximately one half hour before opening. Methos had known he was early, but that had never been a problem before: Joe practically lived in the bar around the clock these days, and Methos often dropped by to share a drink before the place got busy. On this particular night, however, he'd arrived to find the windows dark and the front door locked. Methos had stared at the door for a long moment, as startled by this unforeseen event as he would have been by the earth’s gravity suddenly becoming faulty, before he shrugged and wandered around to try his luck in back. And there was the diminutive brunette, looking very unhappy as she juggled her purse, an umbrella, and the back door’s key in the slippery Seacouver rain. As Methos approached, the key missed making contact with the door's rusty old lock once again. The young woman shook her head in frustration. “Oh….fudge!”

Methos couldn’t help himself. “Fudge?” he repeated teasingly.

The young woman jumped. Methos thought she made quite a charming picture, what with the cold pinking her cheeks, the tendrils of dark hair that were clinging damply to her face, and the elfin gray eyes that looked at him in surprise. There was a moment of apprehension as she, quite rightly, was startled by being approached by a strange man in the dark alleyway. Then she recognized him, and her expression softened. “Oh, it’s *you*,” she said warmly. “I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”

Methos admitted that she almost certainly had, and took both umbrella and purse so smoothly that the waitress almost didn’t notice she’d surrendered them. “I hate this door,” she said. “I always dread the nights when Joe asks me to open for him. The lock seems to go out of its way to embarrass me. I’m beginning to think it has something against me personally.”

“Inanimate objects do have this annoying habit of developing grudges,” Methos agreed, carefully angling the umbrella so that it shielded the waitress’s hands. She gave him a grateful smile and slid the key into the lock, groaning softly when it then refused to turn. “So. Joe isn’t here, then?” Methos asked. “I thought it was strange that the place was so dark.”

“He’s still downtown. Today was his monthly meeting with the bar’s financial backers,” the young woman answered, jiggling the key frantically. “Those meetings always run over, I don’t know why. Joe runs this place like clockwork. But they like to interrogate him anyway. He won’t be back for hours.”

*Ah. That would be the monthly Watcher supervisory meeting, then,* Methos surmised, noting the complete absence of a tattoo on the young woman’s lovely wrist. Evidently, the waitress was one of the bar’s few staff members who didn’t know the real reason for the place’s existence. She jiggled the key again, and it finally rotated in the lock with a satisfying click. Methos thought he’d never seen anything quite so unexpectedly lovely as the waitress’s triumphant smile. “There,” she said, removing the key and opening the door. “That’s the first challenge of the evening conquered. Do you want to come in? We don’t really open until six, but I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind…”

“No, no. That’s quite all right,” Methos answered. “I just flew in from Paris; I only stopped by to tell Joe I was back. I’ll just have to come tomorrow evening instead. Here.” He handed her the purse and umbrella through the open door, and was rewarded by another one of the startling smiles. “I hope that the rest of your evening’s challenges are solved just as quickly.”

“Thank you,” she said, and Methos nodded and walked away, steps considerably buoyed by the memory of the sweet sparkle in the waitress’s eyes. It wasn’t until he reached the end of the alley that he realized he didn’t even know her name. Oh, well. That could easily be remedied….tomorrow. It would be something to look forward to. Methos smiled to himself and walked off into the night.

Seacouver on a rainy night had a fragrance all its own. Methos decided just to walk in it for a while, cherishing the rare feeling of having “no deeds to do and no promises to keep.” Tomorrow the boxes he’d shipped from his flat in Paris would arrive and he’d have to spend the day unpacking, laboriously converting his painfully bare new Seacouver apartment into a home. But for now there was nowhere he absolutely had to be, and he let himself wander accordingly, simply breathing in the scent of the city and experiencing the drizzle on his skin. He wondered at himself a bit, knowing himself to be a man who very much appreciated his creature comforts, which normally included being warm and dry and far out of the reach of any rain. For some reason, tonight it didn’t bother him at all. There was a certain familiarity to the scent and the feel of the rain that made him feel very peaceful. More. It made him feel at home.

He didn’t have to look too deep inside to analyze the feeling. When almost ten years of your life disappear overnight, you cling desperately to whatever is handed to you in the present…and Methos thanked his lucky stars that his present included Seacouver. Not just the city, with all its subtle beauties, but also the two men who lived there: one mortal and one Immortal, both of them jewels beyond price. Methos had no idea what sort of person he had been during the last decade, but he reasoned he couldn’t have been too bad if he’d come out of it with friends like Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod. After so many centuries in hiding, it still seemed impossible to Methos that anyone could both know his true identity and tolerate his company at all. But Joe and Duncan knew, and they didn’t just tolerate him: they had also managed to treat him with affection. With love.

For love it was. Both men would undoubtedly shy away if he used the word aloud, but Methos knew love when he saw it. Oh, it wasn’t romantic, wasn’t sexual in the slightest…Joe had made his decision about their relationship years before, and Duncan was much too stuck with the morality of his Highland roots to ever do more than shoot a few inscrutable glances in Methos’s direction. But what they had each given Methos was better than that. During the last few weeks each man had, in his own way, put his life on hold to help Methos readjust to his. MacLeod had let him stay on his couch, waking him up every morning with coffee and a new back issue of Time so Methos could catch up on nine years of world events. Joe had pulled strings to get him a six month medical leave from the Watchers (Thank god he was still a Watcher!) and filled him in on all the details of his professional and personal life that MacLeod didn’t know. Methos might never have gone back to Paris, might never have known where he actually *lived*, if Joe hadn’t told him his address… and furnished him with a photocopy of his lease agreement as well. When Methos had expressed surprise that Joe had copies of his paperwork, Joe had given him a trademark shrug. “Yeah, well, the way the last couple of years have gone, you figured it would be good for someone who knew the truth to keep copies of the important stuff,” he’d said gruffly. “Just in case, you said. Looks like you were right.”

“Looks like,” Methos had agreed. “So what’s my new place like, Joe? Typical grad student walk up?”

“You really don’t remember?”

“Jo-ooe.”

“Sorry,” Joe had said repentantly. “Uh, no. It’s not a typical grad student apartment at all. It’s not as grand as your old building—you had to move in a hurry after Kalas—but it’s a nice flat, and you’ve gotten most of your art collection back out of storage. No view of the Eiffel Tower, but there’s lots of space and light. The whole place looks like a cross between a library and an expensive modern art gallery, just the way you like. Much too posh for the likes of Adam Pierson.” He’d smirked.

Methos had caught the smirk. “What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Joe had answered, the smirk still playing around the edges of his lips. “It’s just…the first time I saw your art collection, I assumed that you’d found a wealthy lover who was keeping you in style. There was no way the Adam Pierson I knew could afford that kind of thing.” Joe sighed. “I didn’t know you were Immortal then, of course.”

“Oh.” Methos had thought about this for a moment. Then he’d decided he might as well ask. “Had I? Found a wealthy lover, I mean.”

“No,” Joe’s smirk had become a full out chuckle. “You told me that the building and the art had been left to you by your mysteriously wealthy Uncle Ben. I should’ve known you got that name off a packet of instant rice.”

“Well, actually…” Methos had said slowly. “I’ve been a Benjamin several times over the years. It seems to suit me.”

“Hmmm.” Joe had stared at him for a moment, clearly trying the name on. Then his eyes had widened. “Holy shit. You weren’t in New Orleans around 1885, were you?” Methos had coughed uncomfortably. “You were! You were Benjamin Adams! Oh my god. I should have known all along! We had to do a series of papers on Unidentified Immortals in the Americas my last year in the Academy; Ben Adams was everyone’s favorite. The mild-mannered doctor who knew Mark Twain and seemed to spend most of his free time conning over-awed Watchers out of drinks in bars…”

Methos had grinned nostalgically. “They still make student Watchers do papers on me?”

“Why wouldn’t they? Dr. Adams was kind of a legend among the American Watchers of the time. No one could figure how old he was or where he came from, but they all agreed no-one could empty a keg faster.” Joe’s eyes had swept over the line of Methos’s cheek. “And that he wore really, really fake-looking sideburns.”

“Yes, well,” Methos had answered mildly. “I had to look old enough to practice medicine, and I’ve always had a hard time growing facial hair. I had to fake it.”

“But sideburns???”

“Hey! It was better than trying to fake a full beard. And I’ll have you know that those sideburns were made out of the finest quality horsehair I could find,” Methos had answered with great dignity. “I’ll tell you, it wasn’t easy wearing them 24/7, either. All that spirit gum got quite itchy.” Joe had stared at him for a long moment, then he’d thrown his head back in a snort of laughter. “Joe,” Methos had said slowly, watching him. “Didn’t I share any of this with you before?”

Joe's laughter had died away. “We never talked a lot about your past,” he’d answered, his earlier humor suddenly replaced by a sadness Methos still didn’t entirely understand. “In a lot of ways, I’m learning more about you now than I did before you lost your memories.” He’d cleared his throat and rattled the lease. “Come on. Let’s see what we can do about getting this extended for another couple months. With a bit of luck you won’t even have to fly to Paris.”

In the end Methos did have to make a short trip to Paris, to sign the paperwork on the lease extension and to tie up several other loose ends. Entering the flat was a very strange experience. Methos had known for a fact that he’s never been there before, and yet the place was clearly his. Not only were his precious sculptures arranged in thoughtful display, other marks of Methos-ness were everywhere he looked. Extra high wattage light bulbs for easy reading in all the fixtures. His favorite flavor of toothpaste in the bathroom. Books filled with bookmarks scattered on every available surface. Methos had found a mystery novel lying face down on the bedside table, apparently open to the last page he’d read. He’d picked it up, realized that he hadn’t the slightest idea who the characters were or what was happening in the plot, and put it down again. He’d stayed in the apartment just long enough to pack a few things and to ascertain that yes, he really had been too smart for his own good: his personal journals were encrypted with a protocol much too complex for him to break, and he’d left himself no clues to the password. Then he’d promptly booked the first flight back to Seacouver. Paris was no longer home. It might be again, after he’d had a little more time to get used to things. But for now Seacouver was the only place he wanted to be.

And now it looked like he was going to have yet another reason to be grateful for waking up in the Rainy City rather than Bora Bora or anywhere else in the world. Methos smiled as he walked through the rain, thinking of a lovely pair of feminine blue eyes.

***

Joe had known that Methos’s attention was drifting for some time. Okay, so maybe baseball *wasn’t* the most interesting subject in the world, especially when you were a 5,000 year old Immortal who had seen as many forms of sport rise and fall as you had seen the cultures that spawned them. But damn it, Methos was the one who had asked him to explain the rules. Joe had thought it was an odd request. After all, Adam Pierson had played softball with Don, and the rules weren’t all that different. But when he said this, Methos had just given him what Joe now knew was his best poker face and told him he’d just been faking his understanding then; the Researchers were disorganized enough that he hadn’t had to know what he was doing, just cheering when everyone else cheered and running and batting when directed had been enough. So Joe had launched into an in-depth description of Baseball as An Art Form. And in doing so he’d managed, for a brief time at least, to forget all about love and loss and this weird stranger who looked exactly like his Adam but wasn’t…

Now, though, seeing the way Methos’s eyes followed his best waitress everywhere she went, Joe had to wonder if the whole conversation hadn’t been a ruse from the start. When Alexa came to the bar to offload some glasses and Methos stopped listening to him altogether, Joe became sure of it. “Excuse me,” the old Immortal said. “If I sat at a table, would you be my waitress?”

Joe watched the gentle flirtation that followed with a surreal sense of detachment, almost like he was watching a movie instead of real life. It was a feeling that had been haunting him for days, ever since he’d realized that this new person Methos had become was genuinely interested in Alexa. Joe knew he really should have noticed something sooner. God knew he’d been watching Methos like a hawk for the last month and a half, trying to figure out if the man he’d loved was still in there somewhere. But in spite of all his scrutiny, Joe had somehow managed to miss this new development completely until Alexa’s last day off, when Methos had oh-so-casually brought her up. “That waitress who was working here the other night,” he’d said, lounging carelessly against the bar while Joe wiped it down with a rag. “The short one, with the long dark hair. Has she worked here long?”

“Who? You mean Alexa?”

“Is that her name?”

“I guess so. Alexa’s the only brunette I’ve got working here, now that Mary Jean’s gone blonde. Yeah, she’s worked here for quite a while…it must be about a year now. Longer than I can hold onto most of my staff.” Joe had flicked his cleaning rag pointedly at the Immortal elbows; naturally, Methos was leaning exactly where he needed to work next. Methos withdrew, but without the rakish smile or sarcastic comment Joe had come to expect. He’d looked up to see a definite tension hidden behind Methos’s casual pose, and misinterpreted it entirely. “She doesn’t know you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Joe had said kindly. “You two never met before you lost your memories.”

“Uh, no. No, that wasn’t what I was worried about at all.” Uncharacteristically, Methos had hesitated, waving one long hand awkwardly in the air. “Do you know if Alexa’s seeing anyone? Has a steady boyfriend or anything like that?”

Joe had shrugged. “I doubt it. Alexa’s got a lot on her plate right now. Not a lot of time for romance.” He’d cocked his head curiously. “Why? You haven’t seen some jerk of a customer giving her a hard time, have you? Alexa can usually handle that sort of thing herself, but I’d be glad to have a word if she…”

“Er. No.” Methos’s cheeks had actually turned pink. “I was just wondering if she might be interested in going out with *me.*”

“You…you what?” 

Joe had stare at the Immortal as if he’d suddenly sprouted an extra head, going cold and chilled inside. Methos had met his disbelieving eyes with a shy shrug, his cheeks turning even pinker. And Joe couldn’t help it. The next question had come bubbling up so fast he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. “Don’t you think your boyfriend would disapprove?” he’d hissed.

Methos had looked startled. “My what?” he’d said blankly. “What on earth are you talking about Joe?”

Joe had clenched the bar rag tightly in his hand. “Your boyfriend,” he’d repeated angrily. “Don’t bother acting dumb, old man. I know what’s going on. And I think it’s a dirty trick, sniffing around a girl like Alexa when everyone knows that you and Mac are…” 

He’d gotten pretty good reading this new Methos’s expressions over the last month and a half. Unlike the version Joe had loved, this one almost never felt a need to keep anything from him. It was a sad thing, but it was true. Joe knew instantly that the bewilderment that flickered over Methos’s face was genuine. “When everyone knows that me and Mac are…” he prompted, and when Joe didn’t answer his mouth gaped open. “Good heavens. Just what do you think MacLeod and I have been doing together for the last few weeks, Joe? Dating? Sleeping together? Falling in love?”

“I—“

“Never mind. It’s preposterous no matter what you thought.” Methos had snorted. “Me and Duncan MacLeod. What an idea!”

For a moment silence had reigned, as Joe had tried to process this. What the hell? MacLeod had *told* Joe he and Methos were lovers, the night he’d taken him away. Could he have been lying? Impossible, it wasn’t in Mac’s nature to lie about such a thing. Then what was going on? “It’s not such a strange one,” he’d said aloud at last, carefully feeling his way. “You two have been pretty inseparable since Kristin’s death. Not to mention the fact that he let you live with him for nearly a month, even when Richie would just as soon have seen you drop off the face of the earth…” 

“Joe, Joe, Joe,” Methos had said reprovingly, shaking his head. “You disappoint me. You should know that just because two men care for each other and live under the same roof for a time, it doesn’t make them lovers. I mean, just look at the two of us.” He’d waved at Joe expansively. “You’ve taken really good care of me lately, and I have no doubt that you would have taken me in if Duncan had slung me out before I got my new place, but that doesn’t mean we would have ended up in bed. Not after all this time. We’re friends, right? Nothing more.” He’d shrugged. “And Duncan and I are just the same.”

*Just the same* Joe had thought, feeling the color drain out of his face. *Could it be that I wasn’t the only one who decided not to be completely truthful when Methos woke up with his memories missing? Not the only one who thought that some things were best left buried? Oh, god. If only I’d known sooner…* “What about Alexa, then?” he’d asked hollowly.

Methos had smiled. “She’s extraordinary,” he’d said. “Have you looked at her lately, Joe? I mean really looked, watched her for a few hours as she goes about her work? I have, and it’s been quite an experience. There’s a fragility to her, but also a strength, the kind most women seem to be being born without these days. She never raises her voice, never threatens…but one soft look of disapproval from her and even your unruliest customer backs down and apologizes. Half your staff is in love with her…Mike certainly is, as well as poor Tommy the busboy. You are too, in a fatherly sort of way. Don’t try to deny it. It’s the truth.”

Joe hadn’t tried. “And you?” he’d asked softly.

“Me? When I see her, I…” Methos had hesitated for a second, then suddenly leaned toward Joe. His eyes had been wide and earnest. “It’s like this, Joe. Have you ever woken up feeling like part of you was missing? Something as vital and precious as an arm or leg, only you couldn’t remember what it was?” Slowly, barely able to breath, Joe had nodded. “Well, I’ve felt that way ever since I first woke up on Duncan’s couch. I didn’t just lose nine years, Joe—I lost something much more important. The only thing was, I didn’t know what. But now…” His expression softened. “Now, when I look at Alexa, I think I’ve found it. She’s special, Joe. Really special.”

*No, no,* Joe had thought wildly. *It’s not Alexa you were missing, Methos. It was me. Or possibly MacLeod. Or…god, I don’t know what to think, what to say, what to do! Should I tell you? Would it do any good?* For about the thousandth time since Kristin’s death, Joe had considered telling Methos the entire truth about their past. But he could hear the extra lilt in the Immortal’s voice whenever he said Alexa’s name, could see the genuine appreciation and affection in his eyes, and something deep in his heart had told him it was too late. Methos was in love. “Yeah,” he’d said gruffly. “She’s a special girl, all right.”

Methos’s grin had been like sunshine breaking. “Then you’ll help me?” he’d said. “Tell her I’m a good guy?”

“I’ll tell her the truth. *If* she asks,” Joe had answered brusquely. “Which she won’t. I meant it, Adam. Alexa’s going through a lot right now. She doesn’t have time…”

“We’ll just let her decide that, shall we?” Methos had answered, with a confident twinkle that had made Joe want to throw something at him. He’d finished off his beer and thrown some money on the bar. “Thanks, Joe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Alexa doesn’t work again until Saturday.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”

***

Which was how Joe Dawson was put in the extremely unlikely position of watching the love of his life gently and carefully seduce another lover, a woman he’d come to think of almost as a daughter during the year she’d worked at the bar. *I knew from the beginning that falling in love with the World’s Oldest Immortal would involve its share of weirdness,* Joe wrote in his journal a few days later, when the working day was just beginning and he was alone in his office. *The moment I learned his true name I knew we’d go through our share of things Dear Abby would never even be able to believe, let alone offer advice on. But never in a million years did I think that I’d have to watch him fall in love with someone else. And I’m not a saint. A hundred times I’ve almost stepped in to stop it…a hundred times I’ve opened my mouth to rant and scream and tell him what we once were to each other, or worse yet, to tell her. But I haven’t. And I don’t know why…*

*Oh, hell. Of course I do. If I’m honest with myself, I can admit the truth. The Adam Pierson I fell in love with so many years ago was an illusion. Not real. Never existed. The fact that he changed in so many little ways after his memory loss should have made that obvious, but if it hadn’t, watching him court Alexa has made it incontrovertible. From a Watcher’s point of view, it’s been amazing…I’ve gotten to witness the oldest man in the world become a new person, one that has Alexa at the center of his universe. It’s not simply a matter of “doing cute”. He’s genuinely becoming a different human being—adopting new character traits she finds attractive, dropping the ones she doesn’t. What little of the Adam I knew that was left after Kristin’s Quickening has disappeared completely. And as far as I can tell, it hasn’t cost him any more effort than it used to take him to put together an outfit that wasn’t black. Maybe it’s taken even less.*

*It would be fascinating if it didn’t hurt so much.*

*Because it does hurt. I watch him with Alexa, watch him recreate himself to suit her needs, and I know that the man I fell for was just a similar creation. Did Methos ever really like the blues? Did he ever really like the way I played them? Or was I just a convenient mold for him to shape himself around, something to give him a focus, however temporarily? When I told him two days ago that Alexa was dying, and he told me that we all were, I thought for a moment that I understood: he *has* to wear these masks, has to shape himself to fit our needs, because none of us ever lasts long enough to shape ourselves to his. Still. That doesn’t change the fact that the man I took into my bed and my heart was just another role. Unreal…*

*And it doesn’t change the fact that this new Adam, however insubstantial he may be, makes Alexa happy—happier than she’s ever been. He has something she needs more than anything: life. And more than that. He also has the courage to share that life with her, grabbing every moment no matter what shadows loom ahead. None of the rest us who love her can do that. We try, but we’re all too mortal to be able to stand that close to death without flinching. But Adam can, without fear…and it’s a priceless gift. The one thing that can make Alexa’s last year on earth happy instead of sad. *

*If I took that away, I’d never be able to look at my face in the mirror again. Never.*

*So when Alexa came to me yesterday and gave me her notice, shyly telling me that Adam was taking her to see the Grand Canyon, all I did was smile and kiss her on the cheek. We’re not going to open to the public at all this afternoon, as Mike and the rest of the boys want to throw the happy couple a going away party. I’ll have to stop writing soon if I want to have enough time to pick up the cake. I should leave enough time to swing by home and shower, too. It wouldn’t do for the proud father-figure to be less than his best, now would it? Not to mention that I could use a few moments of practice in front of the mirror, just to make sure that my happy smile doesn’t slip.

*Wish me luck.*

Joe looked at the journal as he closed it up, sighed, and shoved it back into its hiding place. He changed clothes and retrieved the “Bon Voyage” cake from the baker’s without incident, and managed to play the part of the benevolent host all evening long, only allowing his cheerful expression to falter when Methos and Alexa went to load up their luggage. MacLeod, who had dropped by to tell Joe that Claudia Jardine was on her way back to London, saw him and silently joined him at the bar. Joe poured him a whiskey without comment. The Highlander tossed it down quickly, wincing at the bitter burn. Then he said: “Is he planning to marry her?”

“Does it matter?” Joe asked in return. “Haven’t you listened to him talk about her, tell you about all the things he wants her to see? He’s as committed to making her happy as a man can be. Whether or not they actually sign the paperwork seems pretty irrelevant to me.” MacLeod grimaced and poured himself another shot. Joe sized him up. “You never told him, did you.”

For once, there was no hint of miscommunication between them. MacLeod knew exactly what Joe was driving at. “No. It seemed…simpler.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

There was a commotion at the door as Methos and Alexa re-entered and the bar staff gathered around them, laughing and chattering. MacLeod downed his second shot as quickly as the first. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?” he asked.

“Tell him? For god’s sake, MacLeod.” Joe gestured at Alexa, at her pink cheeks, her glowing eyes. “Look at her. She’s happy, and she has less than a year to live. Do you really think I’d do anything to mess that up?”

“No. No, you wouldn’t.”

MacLeod relaxed for a moment, placing his glass back on the bar. Then he looked at Joe suspiciously. “What?” Joe demanded.

“Why do I have the feeling that there’s something else going on here that I don’t know about? That there’s a secret you’re not letting me in on?”

Joe shrugged. “I’m a Watcher, MacLeod. Secrets are my business.” *And I might as well keep yours right along with my own.* He resolutely placed the cap back on the whiskey bottle. “Come on. Looks like they’re about ready to leave. Let’s go see them off.”

Later, much later, Joe let himself back into the abandoned bar. The place was dark, except for two small lights: one on the bar and one on the stage, one illuminating Joe’s guitar resting in its stand, one spotlighting the half-full bottle of whiskey standing next to MacLeod’s abandoned glass. Joe limped over to the bar and grabbed the whiskey. Then he climbed onto the stage, picked up his guitar, and placed the bottle within easy reach.

It was time for the real mourning to begin.

**~End Adam and Methos~**


	5. Methos and Adam

**Methos and Adam**

“The finger of blame has turned back on itself,  
And I’m more than willing to offer myself,  
Do you want my presence or need my help?  
Lord knows where that might lead…  
I fall at your feet.”

~James Blunt, “Fall at Your Feet”

****  
_~Paris, March 26th, 1996~_  


 

Methos wasn’t entirely certain why he told the cab driver to take him to MacLeod’s barge rather than his own, long abandoned flat. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was some weird Immortal homing instinct. Maybe it was simply the practical application of the old saw that home is that place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you. Whatever the reason, it was pouring rain when he arrived. Methos paid the cab driver with shaking hands and sent him on his way, aware that he should be feeling the stinging raindrops a lot more than he was. He couldn’t. A horrifying numbness, thick and impossible to breach, had surrounded him like a shroud; not even the sensation of MacLeod’s incredibly strong buzz managed to raise so much as a goose pimple. Methos crossed the barge’s gangplank to the deck, descended the short flight of stairs that led to MacLeod’s front door, took a deep breath and knocked.

The door opened. MacLeod stared out at him, astonished. “Methos?”

“She’s gone, Duncan. Alexa. She’s really gone.”

Instantly, MacLeod’s expression of astonishment changed to one of total understanding, the deep comprehension of a man who had been exactly where Methos now stood many times and who could remember the pain with stunning clarity. “Come inside,” he said. “I’ll pour you a drink.”

Methos went.

***

Methos would never be sure exactly when Duncan’s sympathy became something more. When did the brown eyes that looked down at Methos over Methos’s shaking glass of scotch became gently inquisitive instead of compassionate? When did the hands that picked his tired, numb, mercifully drunk body off the couch and ushered him into the bathroom became more about caressing his neck than rubbing his hair dry with a towel? When Methos, an emotion penetrating his mental fog for the first time since he’d placed Alexa’s coffin on the plane, pulled away and stuttered that a hot shower might help him warm up, Duncan had simply handed him a robe and left him in peace, not saying a word. But then when Methos left the bathroom, the lights were turned low and the barge’s one bed was turned down…and a bare-chested Highlander was inside it. “MacLeod?” Methos said, trying for a joking tone and failing miserably. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Duncan rolled his eyes. “Just come here, Methos,” he answered, patting the mattress beside him. And, rather incredibly, Methos did. He left the robe on the floor and crawled naked under the covers, much too exhausted to argue or care about inconsequential things like the current era’s nudity taboos. Duncan stretched out an arm. Methos snuggled into it gratefully, breathing a sigh of relief as he felt Duncan’s warm skin wrap around his frigid one. Lost in the sensation of being touched and welcomed--it felt like an eternity since he had last touched another human being, Alexa had been lost to him behind a maze of hospital equipment for so long--Methos didn’t realize that Duncan was not merely shirtless but pant-less as well until the Highlander rolled over onto his side and wrapped his second arm around Methos’s chest. “Duncan,” Methos said, almost too tired to wonder. “You’re naked.”

The Highlander chuckled softly. “Brilliant deduction, Methos.”

Getting his brain to work was like trying to start up Don’s old Volkswagen. No matter how hard Methos fiddled with the key, the engine just refused to turn over. “Is there a special reason for that? You always used to sleep in sweats.”

“I suppose that depends on you,” Duncan said. “I could just be being a good host, you know. Being polite, not wanting to make you feel uncomfortable just because you seem to have misplaced your own pajamas temporarily. Or--” He touched Methos gently on the forehead, than bent his head to kiss the same spot, lips softly gliding over the skin just under Methos’s hairline. “Or I could be offering you some comfort. The choice is up to you.”

Methos’s entire body tingled at that simple touch. Could he have fallen asleep? Or wandered into some weird alternate dimension straight out of the Twilight Zone? It had to be one or the other. There was simply no other way he could possibly be lying in Duncan MacLeod’s bed, with a naked, warm, and apparently not-so-exclusively-straight-after-all Highlander pressing seductive kisses into his forehead. “Duncan,” he said softly. “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking about what I would have wanted my best friend to do for me after Tessa died,” Duncan answered. “And after Little Deer, and Diane, and every other time I’ve lost a woman who was precious to me. How badly I needed someone in my bed who could keep me from losing my mind to the loneliness. Who could make me feel something besides pain. That’s what I was thinking, Methos.” Duncan shrugged, massive shoulders moving expressively under the covers. “Well? Did I get it wrong? I can go make a bed for myself on the couch if you’d rather.”

Methos frowned. “You’d let me have the bed all to myself?”

“If that’s what you need,” Duncan said without hesitation. “You can have anything you want from me tonight, Methos. You must have known that, or you would never have come here in the first place.” Methos nodded softly at that. He had indeed known. Not consciously, perhaps. But something inside had told him that this was the one place in the world where it would be safe to really feel all the pain that was in him, the one place where that pain would be accepted and understood. *Home,* he thought again. *That place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you…* “Well?” MacLeod asked, the lightness of his tone belying the seriousness they both knew was lurking in the question. “Should I go get out the spare pillows?”

Methos thought about it, marshalling all his resources in the effort to think clearly. Part of him was screaming that something wasn’t quite right about this situation, that there would be consequences terrible to navigate if he simply took what Duncan offered. But for some reason his exhausted brain refused to spell out exactly what those consequences would be. And, oh god, he did indeed need to feel something besides pain, needed to remind himself he was still alive even if there was presently a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be. “No,” Methos said thoughtfully. “I imagine the pillows we already have will do just fine.”

Duncan smiled. It was a nice smile, broad and honest and very, very sexy. “Good.”

He arranged the pillows into a pile at the headboard, gently urging Methos to lie back against them. As his body sank into the softness, Methos once again had the strange feeling that had dogged him the whole time he’d stayed with Duncan in Seacouver: the feeling that, for reasons he completely failed to understand, he was precious to this man. Loved. It made no sense. But here was the ultimate proof, in the way Duncan so carefully touched every inch of his skin. Methos felt his aching body begin to melt under the gentle caresses, especially when Duncan caught both of his hands in his own and brought them to his mouth. “Shhh. Easy now,” Duncan said when Methos flinched, rubbing Methos’s fingers gently between kisses. “It’s okay. I know your hands hurt.”

“How did you know that?”

“You’ve had them in clenched into fists ever since you got here. Except when you were holding your drink.”

“Oh.” Methos looked down at the familiar set of fingers as if they belonged to someone else, made a completely unsuccessful attempt at forcing them to straighten. “Doesn’t look like they want to uncurl,” he said. “Who knows. I may never relax again.”

“You can relax here. Let me help.”

The Highlander traced the line of each finger with his lips, kissing each tight, painfully cramped digit as he rubbed away the pain. And the truly odd thing was that, as Methos’s fingers slowly unknotted, so did something in his perception. The world suddenly expanded beyond the ache in his chest to include the softness of the sheets underneath him, the thickness of the shadows cloaking the ceiling overhead...and the near-electric sensation of the current that flowed between him and Duncan MacLeod. It tickled every tiny hair on Methos’s body, magnified every sensation. Then Methos realized that the current was pulsing in the same rhythm with which Duncan’s Quickening pulsed inside his brain, that the Highlander was channeling some of his own power into Methos’s body through those expressive hands. “Duncan?”

“Shhh,” came the response. “Trust me, Methos.” And Methos had no choice but to do so as Duncan kissed away the tears he hadn’t even realized he’d been crying, gently calling him up out of his despair into a world Methos had forgotten existed, a world of understanding and strength. There was a weird sense of déjà vu in the way Duncan’s Quickening curled through him, a feeling that only increased when Duncan finally kissed his way down to Methos’s hip and took his erection in his mouth. Methos’s tears started falling twice as fast. Duncan, alarmed, lifted his head. “Methos?” he asked. “Do you need me to stop?”

Methos shook his head like a madman, unable to explain his emotions even to himself, unable to fathom why sliding into the warm, wet haven that was the Highlander’s mouth felt simultaneously so right and so very, very wrong. Like remembering something important and forgetting it all in the same moment. Like coming home and being cast from it all at once. Duncan grabbed his hands and laced their fingers together, sending the energy that was his Quickening teasing like fire through Methos’s arms and into his chest. In the explosion of feeling that followed, Methos suddenly became all hunger and desperate need; he moaned as his hips thrust up from the bed, seeking the warmth that was once again obligingly there to take him in. Duncan went to work on him, sucking hard and twining his tongue around Methos’s crown in between strokes; it was as if he knew that the time for finesse had passed, that prolonging the pleasure any more would simply be a torment. Methos came with a howl, and felt his whole body collapse. 

Duncan licked up the evidence of his orgasm with the smug satisfaction of a cat, then crawled back up the bed and gathered Methos into his arms, simply holding, demanding nothing in return. When the generosity of that started Methos’s tears flowing once again Duncan started rocking him like a child. “There, there. Let it go,” he whispered. “You’re safe here, Methos. Let it go.”

Methos didn’t believe him, not entirely. Life had taught him there was no such thing as safety where another Immortal was involved, or where any other being was involved for that matter. But his mind was too tired to argue with his heart, and Methos was startled to discover that he believed Duncan *enough* to let his tears fall as they would. Maybe this place wouldn’t be safe forever, but it would do for now. He let the last of his numbness dissolve and cried like a baby, listening to the Highlander’s gently murmured words of comfort. 

Eventually, he cried himself to sleep.

***

Morning. Methos woke up feeling curiously at peace. His grief for Alexa was still present, still a gaping hollow that only time would be able to fill. But there were other feelings as well. Contentment. A strange sense of being exactly where he should be, at home. Methos lay still for a long time after he woke up, letting the sound of Duncan’s morning shower and the feel of the soft white sheets form a kind of cocoon around him, cradling him in tranquility. When the Highlander surfaced, freshly shaven and with his damp hair pulled into a ponytail, Methos actually felt strong enough to push back the covers and face the world. He shifted and sat up, and was rewarded by Duncan’s brightest smile. “Good morning,” Duncan said. “How are you feeling?”

“Wounded,” Methos answered honestly. “But healing. Thanks to you.” He took a good long look at the Highlander. No question about it. The man was incredibly beautiful with his freshly shaven face and the towel that rode low on his hips. And his power…Methos could still remember the force of the Quickening that had crackled through his body last night, speeding his healing, lending him strength. “You gave more than I suspect you know last night, Highlander,” he said softly. “I think a thank you is in order.”

“Ah, no. No it isn’t, as a matter of fact,” Duncan interrupted. “There’s no need for a heavy morning after discussion, Methos. You needed. I gave. That’s all there was to it.”

A small smile touched Methos’s lips. “Just that simple, huh,” he said. Duncan nodded, though he had the grace to look slightly abashed. “Well, that’s as may be. I still think some gratitude is due. Don’t wrinkle up your nose at me, Highlander; I rarely express gratitude for anything. Just accept it as the rare moment it is and let it go.” Duncan laughed aloud at that, tossing his head back and letting his bronzed throat ripple. Methos took a moment just to watch, then reached for the robe Duncan had thoughtfully left by the bed. He slipped it on over his shoulders. “Have you seen my coat anywhere? My cell phone’s in the pocket. I must call Joe.”

“You haven’t told him yet?”

“I tried to call him yesterday, from the hospital in Geneva. All I got was his answering machine. I couldn’t let him find out that way.” Duncan nodded. Methos found his coat draped across a chair in the living area, took out the phone and frowned. “No signal. What is with you and cell phones? I could never get this to work at your place in Seacouver, either.”

“Beats me, Methos. I never have any problems.” Duncan nodded at his land-line. “Go ahead, use that. Don’t worry about the charges.”

Methos thanked him. After some hasty mental arithmetic involving the number of time zones between Paris and Seacouver, he decided to call Joe at the bar instead of his home. He didn’t get Joe, but he got Mike, who was almost as good. The bartender listened to Methos’s message with the resigned sorrow of one who had loved Alexa dearly and would grieve, but was also relieved to know she was no longer in pain. Mike promised to break the news gently to Joe as soon as Joe came in, asked to be kept updated on the arrangements, and managed to communicate his affection and support for Methos in such strong terms that Methos was quite overwhelmed. Apparently, as far as Mike was concerned, Methos had become family the moment Alexa had fallen in love with him. “You take care of yourself now, all right?” Mike said as the conversation wound up. “It’s not good to be alone at a time like this. Tell me you’ve got someone to look after you, man.”

“Yes, Mike,” Methos said, looking across the room at MacLeod, who was making coffee in the galley. “I’ve got someone to look after me.” MacLeod looked up and smiled. For a moment Methos was lost in his dark eyes. He said his goodbyes, and hung up with a sigh. “That’s that done, anyway,” he said. “Only four million other details to be attended to.”

“Can I help?”

“No, Duncan. Thank you, but no. You’ve…you’ve already done more than enough.” He sighed, sitting down on Duncan’s couch, arranging the robe neatly over his knees. “It’s mostly paperwork that has to be done now, anyway. I made most of the arrangements in Geneva. The burial will be tomorrow afternoon.”

“Will there be a service?”

“Not really. Alexa had no family, and unless Joe can fly out from Seacouver in time, all her friends are back in the States. So all there’s going to be is the traditional Catholic rites at the graveside. She was a believer. I owe her that much.” Methos stared out through the porthole at the river. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Some things never change.”

“No. Some things never do.” Duncan handed him a cup of coffee, steaming and fragrant. Methos wrapped his hands around it, as grateful for the heat as he was for the actual beverage. “And after the burial?” Duncan asked gently.

“I honestly have no idea.” Methos stared into the coffee cup, watching the swirling brown depths as intently as if he expected to see an omen therein. “My lease is expiring soon, so if I’m going to stay in Paris I’ll have to find another place to live. Once that’s taken care of…well, I just don’t know. The last time I talked to Joe, he told me the Watchers had finally cut through the red tape needed to put Shakespeare and Co. up for sale. I might buy it just to keep it from being turned into another damn café. Or maybe I’ll go back to work for the Watchers. See what I can do to translate Darius’s older Chronicles into current era English.”

“I’d like to read them, if you do.”

“I know you would. I’ll see to it that you get copies.” Methos shrugged. “Really, Highlander, I’m all at loose ends. Ask me again in a few weeks when I can think straight enough to figure out who I want to be for the next decade or two. Right now…right now it’s hard enough to come to terms with the fact that I’m no longer *hers*. I’m just…”

He hadn’t realized that his hands were shaking until the coffee splashed out onto his wrist. Instantly, Duncan was there, gently prying away Methos’s frozen fingers until he could surrender the cup. “Lost,” the Highlander said, setting the cup on the table. “I know. It will get easier, Methos. Hold onto that.”

“It never gets easy.”

“No. Never easy. But *easier*. I promise.”

***

Joe didn’t come to the burial. He sent flowers, a huge bouquet of purple iris. Out of all the floral tributes present—including the large wreath from the rest of the staff at Joe’s, the smaller tributes from Methos’s Watcher colleagues, and a bouquet of yellow roses from Amanda that had the word “Courage!” written on the card—Joe’s offering alone had the power to make Methos’s eyes tear. Of course Joe would remember that the iris was Alexa’s favorite flower. The flowers seemed to wink at Methos as the casket was lowered into the earth, reminding him that he wasn’t alone—other people besides himself were in mourning, other human beings would miss Alexa’s heavenly smile. It helped, knowing that he would not be the only one to remember. It made Alexa’s brief life seem more real. 

Duncan stood beside him at the grave, saying nothing, simply radiating the quiet strength that Methos was rapidly becoming addicted to, and when the rites were complete he drove Methos back to the barge. There he very generously and graciously waited for Methos to drink himself into a state that almost, though not quite, banished the chill of the rainy cemetery, and then he took him back to bed, embellishing upon his earlier attentions with so much creative enthusiasm that Methos had to work to keep up. “God, Highlander,” he exclaimed, when a particular move had sent him past the absence-of-pain threshold into pure pleasure—startling Methos both with its strength and the fact that he could still feel it. “Where the hell did you learn to do *that*? Your Watchers decided more than two hundred years ago that you’d never so much as looked at another man.”

Duncan, his face contorted with pleasure, mumbled something into Methos’s shoulders. Methos thought it sounded like “Yeah, that’s what you said the last time we did this, too,” and for a moment Methos froze. *What* last time? When? But it was hardly the moment to ask that sort of question, and when Duncan’s arms tightened around his chest as the Highlander neared orgasm, Methos concluded he must have heard wrong. He surrendered, letting the roller coaster ride that was Duncan’s sexual skill take him up over the edge. And then promptly collapsed into the soundest sleep he could remember since he’d woken up in Seacouver with nine years cut from his life.

He woke up to the feeling of a protective hand draped over his chest and the sound of gentle snoring in his ears. Methos carefully eased himself out from under the well-muscled arm and spent several moments staring at the sleeping Highlander. The picture was certainly worthy of much contemplation. Duncan was very, very beautiful when he slept, what with the lovely, boneless way his body relaxed into the mattress, and the shining halo the morning light made of his hair. It would be so tempting for Methos to simply stay where he was…burrow deeply back under Duncan MacLeod’s arm and even deeper into his heart, pull the covers up over his head and never leave. The Highlander’s actions over the last few days made Methos sure that Duncan wouldn’t object too strongly to such a plan. But…it was much too soon after Alexa’s death to even think about falling in love again. Not to mention that every single one of Methos’s long-term relationships with other Immortals had been a disaster in one way or another. No. It was much better that he get out now, leave and re-establish a life of his own, before he got too entangled. Methos got up and dressed, rifling in his luggage for a long-unused graduate’s student’s shirt and tie. He brushed a quick kiss across the sleeping Scot’s cheekbone, saying a silent thank you and a goodbye. Then he left the barge. 

When he came back several hours later, Duncan was just sitting down to brunch, paper open on the table as he read between bites of toast. He looked up at Methos expectantly as he came down the stairs. “Congratulate me,” Methos announced. “I’m once again gainfully employed.” He raised his arm, waving his wrist confidently. “And I don’t even need to get a new tattoo.”

“The Watchers took you back, then?”

“Apparently, I never quit. Somehow, the official resignation I sent in never reached the right desk. They’ve had me as being on ‘unpaid family leave’ all this time.” Methos looked thoughtful. “I imagine that I have Joe to thank for that.”

“I imagine you do,” Duncan said. “Joe always did have a soft spot for you, Methos.” He folded his newspaper and sat it on the table. “So you’re going back to work on the Methos Chronicles, then?” 

“Not exactly.” Methos sat down and helped himself to Duncan’s orange juice. It was a calculated move. Now that he had decided to move on, it was necessary to put some space in between himself and Duncan, re-establish his old persona. Stealing Duncan’s juice was the sort of thing Considerate Lover Methos would never do, but Loveable Pain in the Ass Houseguest Methos would do without a thought. He’d expected Duncan to scold him, but the Highlander simply smirked and fetched himself another glass from the galley. “I’m afraid the Methos Chronicles are now a bit beyond the reach of the likes of me,” Methos said when he returned. “I’ve been demoted.”

“Demoted?”

“Yes.” Methos took a sip of juice. Mmmm. Fresh-squeezed. “I’m no longer Head of Special Projects. That post was taken over by Dr. Zoll sometime last winter. I’m just a lowly part-time researcher again. It will probably be quite a while before they let me near the Methos work again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m pleased. I never like to rise too high in any organization; it makes it too hard to keep a low profile. I’m actually pretty surprised that I ever took the Special Projects post in the first place. It really wasn’t like me.” He set his glass back on the table, shrugging softly. “Guess there must have been a good reason I just can’t remember.”

“I suppose there must have been.” Duncan pushed the plate of toast in Methos’s direction, looking troubled. “Methos? Isn’t it going to be difficult, going back to work? Surely your colleagues are going to notice that there are a lot of things you don’t remember.”

Methos shrugged bitterly. “Well, that’s one of the advantages of being recently bereaved,” he said. “You know the drill. ‘Poor dear Adam, lost his wife only a few months after the wedding. No wonder he can barely remember his own name. We’ll excuse his little peculiarities, and invite him out to tea…’” Duncan made a sour face and nodded, telling Methos he’d experienced exactly the same thing more times than he could count. Methos took a deep breath. “But I am afraid that getting back to work means you and I are going to have to be more discrete. You know. Watchers and Immortals, mustn’t interfere and all that.”

The faintest hint of a smile played over Duncan’s lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard that the Watchers have some unreasonable prejudices when it comes to Watcher/Immortal relations. It wouldn’t do for Adam Pierson and Duncan MacLeod to be seen together too often, now would it?” Methos nodded. Duncan frowned. “Does that mean you’ll be moving out, then?”

“Haven’t I imposed long enough?”

“Methos, I don’t think you know the true meaning of the word ‘imposition’,” Duncan answered. “You tend to make yourself at home wherever you are. And that’s fine with me. I just…” He paused, and Methos felt his heart skip a beat, wondering what Duncan was going to say next. “I just…are you really ready to move back into your own flat? That’s all I want to know.”

Ah. Methos quelled the disappointment he felt. After all, he’d made his decision. Getting upset because Duncan wasn't trying harder to stop him was downright childish. “I suppose I have to be,” he said aloud. “My lease is up on the first of May; I really should go back now if I want to sort through my belongings before I move. Besides.” He tried for a lighter tone. “It would be a shame to have rented a place for more than three years and have absolutely no memories of living there. I ought to sleep in the bed at least once.”

Duncan made a non-committal noise and started clearing away the brunch dishes. Methos watched the unhappy set of his shoulders as he carried them into the galley. “You…you’re welcome to visit my flat anytime you want, you know,” he said slowly. “I only gave the place a quick once over when I visited last fall, but I still have my old chess set. We can play.”

The Highlander shot him a quick look over his shoulder. “Planning on taking up my education where Darius left off, Methos?”

“Well, somebody’s got to cure you of relying on your knights,” Methos said, picking up the last couple dishes and carefully carrying them to the sink. *Yes. That will work. Set up a student/teacher relationship, or at least a student/meddlesome-old-coot relationship. It’s not my favorite role to play, but it will keep him close, without any of the awkward consequences of being lovers. Neither of us is ready for that.* He looked at the Highlander, noting the falsely impassive set to Duncan’s jaw, and sighed. “It’s not that I want to go,” he said. “It’s just that it’s time for me to start living my own life again. You must know what that’s like.” Duncan nodded. Methos laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If it helps, you have been incredible, the last few days. Thank you.”

A smirk. “That sounds suspiciously like gratitude, Methos.”

“I know. Not like me, is it?” Methos quipped, then sobered. “I mean it, though. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had you to come to.”

“You would have survived, Methos. Like always. But I’m glad that I could help.” The Highlander looked up at him, his hands full of soap suds as he started cleaning the cups. “All I ask is that you stay safe. All right?”

“I always do.”

“Yeah. You always do.” Duncan nodded to himself.. “Sometimes I think that’s why I like you so much, Methos. It’s nice to be friends with the one Immortal in the world whose survival record is undefeated. Nice to have one friend that I really don’t have to worry about losing to the Game. At least not until the Gathering arrives.” He shot Methos another quick look, this one affectionate. “Not that I won’t worry anyway, of course.”

“Boy Scout,” Methos said fondly, picking up a cloth and starting to dry the dishes Duncan set aside. *Friends,* Methos thought. *He said 'friend.' Good. Friends I can do.* “I’m not a hundred percent convinced the Gathering is anything more than a myth, anyway. I’ve been around a long, long time, and while there have been times that it looked like it was happening…the Crusades were an especially good time for an Immortal to lose his head, you’d be amazed how many of us died during those years…invariably the cycle turns. After all, there’s more of us waking up from our first deaths every year. Doesn’t seem like we’ll ever narrow it down to just two.”

Duncan’s hands stilled. “No Gathering?” he asked, clearly startled. “Than what’s Immortality all about?”

“You’re asking me?” Methos said. “I haven’t got the faintest idea. But—" catching Duncan’s bleak expression, and taking a deep breath… "I can tell you what it’s all about for *me*.” A sharp look from the Scot. Methos smiled. “Learning. Experiencing. And sharing it all with good friends.”

Duncan frowned furiously…then nodded, his face relaxing into more contented lines. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “I guess I can understand that.”

They finished the rest of the dishes in silence.

***

It didn’t take long for Methos to pack his things. Later that afternoon Duncan dropped him at the corner of his street, waiting patiently in the Citroen while Methos got his luggage out of the back. Methos stared up at the unfamiliar buildings sadly. It looked like a nice street, a very nice place to have lived. Pity he couldn’t remember more of it than he did. Duncan, hands balanced on the Citroen's steering wheel, looked at him sympathetically. “Doesn’t ring any bells for you, does it,” he said softly.

“No. But then, I didn’t really expect it too.” Duncan looked concerned, and Methos rolled his eyes. “Duncan, stop looking like a mother hen whose only chick is about to fly away. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“I thought we already established that I was an incurable worry wart where you’re concerned. It’s part of being an overgrown Boy Scout. Got to worry about the others in my troupe,” Duncan said. He extended his hand through the passenger window. “Call if you need anything. I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Methos clasped his hand, and Duncan drove off, leaving Methos standing on the sidewalk with his bags around his feet. He shouldered the heaviest and strode up the walk, searching in his pockets for the key he could only remember using once before. 

Actually forcing himself to unlock the door and step across the threshold took more courage than Methos had expected. The place smelled as musty as tomb, making him feel even more out of place. Apprehensively, Methos stepped into the entryway and flicked a switch, taking in everything the light revealed: the dust, the cobwebs, the weird mix of familiar and unfamiliar which he had a feeling was going to color everything in his life from here on out. “Right,” he said aloud, listening to his voice echo through the rooms. “Hello, again, Life. You look pretty dusty and shut-in; well, that’s only to be expected. I’ve been playing hooky from you for quite a while. And it's not like I actually remember much about you, so I imagine we’ll both have some adjusting to do as we get used to each other again. But I’m willing if you are. Sound good?”

There was no answer. Methos smiled at the thought that he’d actually been expecting one, that his forgotten life might actually have spoken to him from within the shadows. He took another look around, noting the great number of artifacts and belongings that simply rang no bells. Then he shrugged his shoulders and got to work.

It was slow going. Methos found himself stopping every time he ran across something unfamiliar, needing to pick it up and examine it in a way he hadn’t during that first flying trip from Seacouver. He kept wondering what stories each strange item could tell, what part of his life they represented. Some things were pretty self explanatory. The piles upon piles of Watcher background on MacLeod sitting on his desk made perfect sense; Methos knew he would have been paranoid enough to read everything he could on the Highlander once their paths had crossed. But other things were harder to explain. His bookshelves now held a good dozen books on recent musical history and guitar technique: Methos frowned at them for quite some time before he opened one and saw a “Property of Joe Dawson” bookplate inside the cover, which explained half the mystery but not enough. Yes, Joe was a generous man who would undoubtedly lend Methos anything in his library if asked, but why would Methos have borrowed them in the first place? Joe had never said anything about Methos learning to play. After all, at his age, it wasn’t like he needed to take up an instrument in order to impress the girls. Methos kept his eye out for other evidence of the new hobby, but when he found neither guitar nor amp he simply had to shrug his shoulders and go on. Maybe he’d been doing special research on a musical Immortal? He’d just have to wait and ask Joe later.

But it wasn’t until he got around to cleaning out the bathroom that things really started getting weird. Methos threw the medicine cabinet open wide and stared at the contents, all the mundane, boring little items he’d been so disinterested in during his last trip. He remembered taking a quick glance at them then, being reassured to see that his taste in toothpaste and shampoo hadn’t changed in the time he’d lost, and thinking no more about it. Now he noticed that there were several items that were strange to him. A bottle of fragrant cologne which Methos couldn’t imagine using even in his most extreme moments of peacockishness, but which had clearly been opened and half used. An American brand of hand lotion “for extremely dry skin” that was in a very similar state. A box of elastic plasters and other first aid supplies…first aid supplies? Alert now, Methos started going through every single shelf and drawer in the bathroom cabinet. Something wasn’t right.

It was the electric beard trimmer, tucked into a drawer with a tumble of combs and other grooming tools, that really shook him. Methos picked it up and held it in his hand, half wanting the little device to be a mirage that would blink away. When it remained blameless and solid in his palm he put it very, very carefully back into the drawer and went into the living room to pour himself a drink. The next evening, when Duncan dropped by bearing a casserole and bottle of wine as “a housewarming gift, sort of,” Methos spent the meal staring at his face, trying desperately to picture the Highlander with a beard. His imaginings stirred no inner bells, but those bells were proving damn unreliable to trigger. When Duncan, exasperated, finally asked if he had food on his face, Methos dropped his eyes quickly. “No, of course not,” he reassured, then looked up again, curious to see the Highlander’s reaction to his next statement. “I was just wondering what you would look like with a beard, that’s all.”

“A beard? Really?” Duncan was clearly perplexed by the sudden turn in conversation, but he was willing to go with it. “Well, I’m not planning on growing one any time soon, but if you’re really curious I’m sure the Watchers have some old photos that would show you. Joe once said something about me looking remarkably like a 1960’s hippy during my Underground Railroad days.”

“You haven’t grown one recently then?”

“Not since the 1880’s. Why?”

Methos shrugged and made some off-hand comment about possibly changing his own look. MacLeod snorted and asked if horse-hair was coming back into fashion, a comment which caused Methos some considerable consternation until he realized that he must have told MacLeod about Benjamin Adams’ disreputable sideburns at some point during That Time He Couldn’t Remember. It was getting more and more annoying, this damn hole in his head. Especially since he was beginning to queasily suspect that the hole had stolen something very important. Methos let the conversation meander on, touching on male fashions over the years and false mustaches he’d known and loved, until the two men were sitting in Methos’s living room with a glass of MacLeod’s gift cabernet clasped in both sets of Immortal hands. “Duncan,” Methos said suddenly. “Can I ask you something?”

Duncan caught the change in Methos’s mood. He nodded solemnly, the deep burgundy of the wine sloshing hypnotically as he swirled his glass. “Anything, Methos.”

“Was I involved with someone before I took Kristen’s head?”

In his wildest dreams, Methos hadn't expected the reaction he got. Duncan took a deep, startled breath, wine sloshing dangerously. Just before the wine slopped out onto the carpeting, Duncan recovered himself. He crossed his legs in a futile effort to appear unperturbed, letting his features become blandly interested. “Now what makes you ask a thing like that?”

*Oh, lots of things, MacLeod,* Methos snarked internally. *Little things like a beard trimmer in the bathroom when we all know I could never use one, hand lotion in the cabinet when there was a perfectly good bottle of lube in the table by the bed, and statements like “that’s what you said the last time” when we had sex. It’s all beginning to seem like the universe is conspiring to screw me over, and why do I suddenly get the feeling that you were the one holding the driver?* Outwardly, Methos took a sip of wine, and gave a carefully-relaxed little shrug. “Just wondering.”

“Well.” Duncan visibly forced himself to relax. “As a matter of fact, you did say something about being involved with a mortal just before you kil—just before you lost your memory.”

Methos straightened in his chair. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“There was a lot going on, Methos! I…I know you don’t remember, but Kristin’s death wasn’t easy for me to accept. And then you were just so lost, I guess it slipped my mind. You never told me anything about her, you know. Not her name or what she did or anything I could have used to track her down. And I…well, I suppose I figured that since your cell phone didn’t fill up with frantic voicemails from some woman desperate to know where you were, it couldn’t have been the love affair of the century. Then there was Alexa, and it seemed…well, you were both so happy, and Alexa had so little time. I didn’t want to mess things up by bringing up some mysterious woman who couldn’t have cared that much about you in the first place.” Duncan made a helpless gesture. "If I made the wrong choice, I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm.” Methos studied the Highlander closely, searching for any sign of duplicity--then gave it up with a sigh. No. Whoever his mysterious roommate had been, it wasn’t MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod was clean shaven—not in need of beard trimmer—and Immortal—unlikely to suffer from dry skin or to need elastic plasters. Thinking it was him had been Methos’s own wishful thinking as much as anything else. But there *had* been someone. A mortal someone, someone important enough to mention to MacLeod at least in passing. And from the evidence in Methos’s bathroom, this “someone” was clearly male. Could that be why Methos had never given Duncan a name? Was it possible that his lost-memory self had made the same incorrect assumption about Duncan’s childhood prejudices that he had, and hadn’t wanted to rock the boat by throwing a male lover in his face? “Hmmm,” Methos said again.

“Methos? Why are you bringing this up now? Has something happened? Or—” Duncan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Has someone told you something, tried to get in touch?”

“No, Highlander.” Methos gave a definite shake of his head. “No irate former lovers have crawled out of the woodwork demanding to know why I ran off with an American. It’s just being back in my flat, that’s all. It’s very strange, knowing that I spent so much time here that I can’t remember. Some things seem familiar, some things don’t. I’m constantly wondering just how much I missed.”

“Oh.” Duncan looked thoughtful. “You could try asking Joe, I suppose. He was a much bigger part of your Adam Pierson life than I ever was.”

“Somehow I doubt that he knows any more than you do.” Methos smiled slyly into his wine glass. “Before I left Seacouver, our mortal friend was convinced that you and I were an item.”

Duncan choked on his wine. “He…he told you that?”

“It was his primary objection to my dating Alexa. He seemed to think my living under your roof for so long in Seacouver was terribly suggestive.” Methos surveyed Duncan’s reaction with carefully hidden smirk. *Ah. How easy it is to embarrass the young. He can sleep with me, but the thought of his Watcher knowing about it is mortifying.* “Don’t worry, Duncan. Your reputation as the Immortal Chick-Magnet is fully intact, at least as far as the Watchers are concerned. I quickly disabused Joe of his illusions.” Methos looked down at the coughing, stuttering Scott and took pity. “Come. Let me serve you something stronger.”

***

It rested there, for a while. Methos felt like he was perpetually living in the first chapter of a detective novel. Clearly, there was a mystery. But try as he might, Methos couldn’t figure out how to solve it—and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. His long life had taught him that some rocks were best left unturned. You just never knew what kind of creepy crawly things had set up residence underneath.

So he went through his apartment with a fine tooth comb, placing all the things he couldn’t remember into a cardboard box…and then promptly put pictures and mementos from his time with Alexa up in their place. The past, after all, was past. It was time to forget the forgotten, celebrate what he could remember instead. And move forward.

Which he did. It took a few weeks, and Methos never quite lost the renewed feeling that he was walking through his life with one limb missing. But eventually his days settled into an easy rhythm. The mornings and afternoons he’d spend inside the Great Library, immersing himself in whatever translations Dr. Zoll decreed. The evenings he’d spend walking randomly around the city, trying to get used to all the changes that had occurred in the last nine years, and then he’d catch up on his reading before bed, including the ever-amusing Chronicle of Duncan MacLeod. Methos curled up with a different volume of the Highlander’s exploits nearly every night, reading his adventures and forming a mental list of the men most likely to have been responsible for Duncan MacLeod’s surprising homosexual prowess. There was certainly no lack of candidates. Brian Cullen. Graham Ash. Even Darius, who Methos knew hadn’t lost his eye for a beautiful man just because he’d taken holy vows. Methos knew that he probably would never find out for sure…no way was he going to jeopardize his and Duncan’s newly balanced, carefully non-sexual relationship by asking. But it was fun to think about anyway, and gave Methos lots of extra entertainment whenever he snuck past Duncan’s Watcher to improve the Highlander’s chess game on the barge. Several times, when the game had paused while a sweating Duncan tried to figure out his next move, Methos would consider the question and smile…causing Duncan to sharply inquire “What?” and Methos to shake his head and say “Nothing” in a perfectly innocent tone that was unnerving in the extreme. (Duncan thought it was all a strategy to improve his technique by teaching him not to fall for mind games. Methos did not disabuse him.)

“He’s become a good friend, Alexa,” Methos said one day about two months later, as he sat on the pebbled ground next to Alexa’s grave. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had that, and I’m surprising myself by just how much I need it. You would think that I would have become an expert at living on my own by now. But no one can live in complete isolation, and Mac…just seems to fit into my life like he’s always belonged there. He knows me well enough that a good fifty percent of the time I don’t have to pretend to be what I’m not--and that’s a rare thing, so rare I’m constantly pinching myself to see if it’s really true. The only other person in recent history that I can remember feeling this comfortable with was Joe, when we were working together to set up Juniper Street …”

Methos sighed, fingers slipping out of his coat pockets so he could meditatively play with the pebbles on the ground. Joe Dawson had been remarkably hard to get a hold of lately. When Methos had called him after Alexa’s funeral to thank him for the iris and ask about the guitar books, Joe had been short to the point of rudeness, practically hanging up in mid sentence. Ever since then Joe had been almost impossible to reach, suddenly discovering a pressing appointment elsewhere whenever Methos did manage to get him on the line. Methos had been hurt, but thought he understood. After all, Joe had loved Alexa like a daughter. Talking to the man who had taken her away—no matter how happy Methos had made her during her last few months—was bound to open some wounds. Methos was confident that, in time, Joe’s grief would fade, and their friendship would return. Still, after nearly two months of leaving “Hey, how are you?” messages that were never returned, Methos had begun to worry. “It’s getting frustrating, Alexa,” he admitted aloud, addressing the silent black tombstone. “I keep thinking that if I could just talk to him, we could clear the air—but that’s impossible unless I can actually get him on the phone first. I—” Methos cocked his head as if listening, then smiled. “Yes, you’re right. Joe Dawson *is* much too special to give up on. I’ll give him a few more weeks. Then if things aren’t any better I’ll just have to fly to Seacouver and corner him in person. We--”

A strong Immortal presence suddenly entered the cemetery, humming in Methos’s ears. He turned his head to see Duncan MacLeod walking toward him, bundled neatly in his heavy wool overcoat. “Speak of the devil and he appears,” Methos said wryly. “Complete with pony-tail and thousand dollar western boots.” He raised a hand in the air. “Mac! I’m over here.”

The Highlander smiled and headed in Methos’s direction, carefully navigating around the closely packed tombstones. “I thought I might find you here,” he said when he arrived. “Telling Alexa all the news?”

“Yes,” Methos nodded, getting to his feet. He brushed the pebbles off his clothes. “I’ve been stopping by at least once a week so far. It’s probably silly, and I know I’ll give it up eventually—after all, if I visited the grave of every loved one I’ve ever lost, I’d never have time for anything else. But for now it seems like the right thing to do. It keeps me connected.” He paused. “Keeps me from forgetting her too fast.”

Duncan nodded soberly, the unhappy shadow in his eyes telling Methos that he understood perfectly. Losing a mortal lover was always a double loss. First you lost their body to death, then you lost their memory to time. No matter what you did, no matter how carefully you tried to hang on, eventually a loved one would become nothing more than a handful of mental pictures and remembered words pressed into the mind's scrapbook. It was inevitable, and probably a blessing in the long run. That didn’t make it easy. “I don’t think it’s silly,” Duncan said, and cleared his throat. “Did you tell her about buying Shakespeare and Co.?”

“A little,” Methos answered. The week before, after much wrangling and negotiation, “Anachronistic Developments, Inc.” (otherwise known as the real estate arm of the Watchers) had finally signed the papers selling the Shakespeare and Co. property to the wealthy British corporation of “Quinque Milia Interests, LLC” (otherwise known as Methos). Quinque Milia had taken possession of the keys and promptly hired Adam Pierson as the part time manager, a good cover story should any of Methos’s Watcher colleagues discover him working in the store. Methos had been very relieved to find the place undisturbed, without so much as a broken window or a missing first edition. He hadn’t had a chance yet to move the secret bookcase to find out if Don had kept his 15-year-old promise to let young Adam use the hidden basement as a storage site, but he was confident that when he did he’d find his old cache of miscellaneous papers still intact. “It’s a bit difficult telling her the full story,” he said to MacLeod now. “Alexa knew nothing about the Watchers or Immortality when she was alive, so when I talk to her now I have to be a bit vague about the details. But, yes, I told her I’d bought the bookstore a good friend of mine used to own.”

“And did you tell her how you almost cheated *this* good friend out of his barge?”

“I may have mentioned it in passing,” Methos said, hiding a smirk as he remembered the recent debacle with Gina and Robert Delicourt. “She scolded me no end for breaking your vase. Even if I wasn’t the one who actually dropped it.”

“I think I would have liked this woman.”

“I know you would have," Methos answered. "If we’d had more time…6 decades instead of 6 months, or even just another couple of years…I think we would have ended up moving to Paris. Alexa would have loved getting to know you, having croissants and champagne on the top of the barge. And I know she would have loved waking up to the Eiffel Tower every morning.” He sighed. “I wish I had found the time to bring her here, even if it was just for a few days. There are so many things here she would have enjoyed.”

“You didn’t visit Paris at all while you were in Europe?”

“I thought about it, but we had so little time, and there were so many other things I wanted her to see. Egypt. Rome. Greece.” Methos looked at the tombstone meditatively. “She loved Greece. Santorini especially.”

“Well, she never would have seen it at all if you hadn’t taken her.”

“No. She wouldn’t have.” Methos looked down at the grave, feeling a maudlin state beginning to creep over him. Talking about what could-have-been always had that effect. “I think she would have liked to have been buried there, but…I just didn’t want her to be so far away.”

Duncan caught his change in mood. “Come on. I’ll take you home,” he said, and when Methos merely nodded bleakly, he touched Methos on the shoulder, his hand feeling warm and comforting through the thin cloth of Methos’s coat. They turned to go, carefully winding their way through the cluster of graves. “You know, the Navajo have a saying,” Duncan offered. “The spirit lives as long as someone who lives remembers you.”

Methos heard the unspoken addition: *Then Alexa will live a long time, indeed,* and smiled softly, touched by the offering. “Aren’t you a little young to be so smart?”

Duncan looked thoughtful. “Strange,” he said. “Now that Darius is gone, I think you are the only person in my life who still dares to call me that.”

“Smart?”

“Young.”

“Ah. Of course.” Methos smiled to himself. “It’s just a matter of perspective, Duncan. Nothing more.” They went through the cemetery gates, leaving holy ground behind. “Wait. Doesn’t Amanda ever…”

“You know Amanda. Permanent juvenile delinquent. She never acts her age, and never admits to being wiser than me about anything.”

“Maybe I should take a few lessons from her. I could use a bit of youth today.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. One completely irresponsible 1,000-plus year old in my life is quite enough, thank you. I—”

Duncan stopped in mid-sentence. After a second of confusion Methos understood why; he could feel the other Immortal buzz. It wasn’t as strong as Duncan’s, but it was strong enough to tell Methos that the stranger was hardly a neophyte. He heard the slippery sound of Duncan unsheathing his blade. “MacLeod?” 

“Just taking a look.”

Methos shook his head in annoyance as MacLeod, in full hunter-stalking-prey mode, disappeared around the corner. In the two months that he’d been visiting Alexa’s grave Methos had never once run into another Immortal. He’d actually thought he might have found the one Immortal-free patch of Holy Ground in Paris. But all it took was one visit from Duncan MacLeod, and suddenly swords were being drawn. “Can’t take him anywhere,” Methos muttered. And found himself a safe place to wait.

***

Two hours later Methos would be amazed he had taken the situation so lightly. The Immortal…an old friend of Duncan’s named Warren Cochran…had run screaming from the sight of Duncan wielding a sword. Cochran had even called the police, claiming that he couldn’t remember anything about his life, not so much as his name or the fact that he was very difficult to kill. Duncan was baffled, hurt that his old shield brother had forgotten him. And Methos was caught up in a full-scale case of irrational paranoia.

Perhaps irrational was too strong a word. It had been a remarkably quiet couple of months for Duncan, relatively Challenge free; thus far, Methos really hadn’t had to deal with what it felt like to have someone actively hunting his new friend’s head. And dealing with it was…uncomfortable. Almost terrifying. And the fact that it was so terrifying made it even *more* terrifying. Privately, Methos had to wonder if he’d lost even more of his mind. He knew Duncan was more than capable of defending himself. Besides, Methos had developed a detached fatalism about the prospect of losing friends to the Game several millennia ago. If it happened, it happened, and usually there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. Therefore, why worry about it in the meantime?

This time, he worried. He felt it like an itch that was impossible to scratch, a constant ever-present fear that Warren Cochran might succeed in tricking the Highlander out of his head. For a trick it had to be. After all, what were the odds MacLeod would encounter not one, but two friends who had completely forgotten his existence within the course of a year? No. Co-incidence Methos could believe in; this was too much. Mr. Cochran had to be faking his memory loss. He would lure Duncan in with his vulnerability. And then the second he had Duncan alone and weaponless, he would strike.

Not that Methos could get Duncan to see it that way. One whiff of “old friend in trouble” and the Highlander was instantly in full scale Boy Scout mode, unable to even conceive of the fact that Cochran might have designs upon his head. “I just don’t understand,” he stormed to Methos a few days later as he paced across the newly-reopened basement of Shakespeare & Co., narrowly avoiding collisions with the papers Methos had hung from the ceiling to dry. “He doesn’t remember me, he doesn’t remember his wife, he doesn’t remember his life, anything. It’s…I just didn’t think Immortals got amnesia, that’s all.”

Methos forgot the retort that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since MacLeod first showed up…namely, that everything did add up when you accepted the fact that Warren Cochran was doing an incredibly good job of play acting…and cocked his head, looking at the Highlander curiously. “Why not?” he asked softly. “I did.”

“That’s different,” MacLeod snapped. “There were reasons for that, good reasons. After we—” Startled, Methos waited for Duncan to finish, wondering what it was MacLeod was going to say next. Whatever it was, the Highlander seemed to think better of it. He flung himself down into a chair, grouchily leaning against the table. “Warren isn’t anywhere near your age,” he said. “He shouldn’t start having problems taking Quickenings for another millennia at least. Besides, you only lost a few years. Warren’s lost everything.”

Interesting. Duncan’s conclusion after the false start was smooth, logical, and completely buy-able. Why, then, did Methos once again have this overwhelming feeling that Duncan wasn’t telling him something? “Well,” Methos said carefully, watching Duncan for any reaction: “It can’t be physical. If he’s not faking it, he must have had one hell of an emotional shock. How did he react when you told him what he is?”

“I didn’t get the chance,” Duncan said sourly. “Look, Methos, I need some information from you. I need to know what Warren’s Watcher Chronicle has to say. Find out where he’s lived, where he’s worked, what heads he might have taken recently…”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Methos said, holding up his hands. “Low profile, remember? I’m just a lowly researcher once again. I’m not Joe. I can’t just go looking up random Immortals without someone asking questions.”

“Then call Joe and ask him,” Duncan said. “Or use one of those secret methods of getting information through the back door you have. I know you must have ways to access the files no one else knows about, or you never would have been able to stay out of the Game for so long. You had to have been keeping tabs on the local competition without any of the other Watchers catching on for years, right?” Grudgingly, Methos nodded. Duncan put on his most cajoling expression. “Come on, Methos,” he coaxed. “Say yes. This is important to me.”

Methos looked up into the appealing dark brown eyes…and promptly crumpled. “Okay,” he said, and was rewarded with a great big Highland smile, one that comforted him immensely—even as one tiny separate voice in the back of his mind insisted on wondering just *why* he found the smile so comforting, what there was in his past that made Duncan’s good opinion so important. *Rocks and creepy-crawly things* he thought to himself. *The problem with digging into the past is that you rarely, if ever, find anything pleasant there. If Warren Cochrane *isn’t* faking this, perhaps the poor bastard is better off.* “What would it be like, do you think?” he said aloud.

Duncan had donned his coat and was going up the stairs; he swiveled on the fifth step up, startled. “What, to forget everything?” he asked.

“To start fresh. Maybe it’s a blessing.” Methos swallowed. *Maybe there are some things it’s better not to know.*

Duncan stared at him. There passed a long moment, a time of looking when nothing was said; Duncan seemed unreasonably hurt. Then he forced it away. “Maybe it is,” he said gruffly. “Until someone comes and takes your head.”

He climbed up the stairs and left the store. And Methos, left with the Highlander’s last comment ringing in his ears—left with the brutal reminder of the Game and what Duncan was facing—shook his head and went back to work. The mystery of his past was one thing; right now there was a real threat to the Highlander’s welfare, a real problem to solve. He picked up his phone and called Joe, hoping to pump him for all he knew about the mysterious Warren Cochrane.

***

Joe was out. Methos left several messages, then gave up. It was foolish wasting time waiting for Joe when he did indeed have his own sneaky ways of accessing the Chronicles. He worked hard over the next few days, coming up with a picture of Warren Cochran that was disturbing, to say the least. Oh, there weren’t any obvious red flags…not a lot of unexplained moves, no narrow brushes with the law, no more than the usual number of bank accounts kept in the names of spare identities. But there was the matter of his job. Cochran was a travel writer, work that would allow him to easily hunt heads in foreign locales without endangering his persona. And then there was the mysterious disappearance of his student, Andrew Donnelly. Methos poured through countless files and field reports trying to find him, all to no avail. It appeared that Cochran’s student had dropped off the face of the earth.

Stumped, Methos redoubled his efforts. He was deep in an attempt to determine just where Donnelly might have gone, a map spread out on his desk marked with what little Methos knew about Donnelly’s and Cochran’s last reported movements, when the phone rang. Methos grabbed for it absently, a handful of thumbtacks in his hands. “Pierson here. Hold on a moment, I can’t hear you…” He wedged the phone against his shoulder, dropped the tacks in heap on the corner of his desk, and then picked up the phone properly. “There we go. Sorry about that. Go ahead.”

“Adam.” The voice on the other end of the phone sounded hesitant. “Sounds like I caught you at a bad time.”

“Joe?” Methos couldn’t believe how good it was to hear the musician’s voice again. “No, no, it’s fine. I was just doing some research, that’s all. Wait a minute.” Hurriedly, he glanced around his office, from the map with its tacks to the pile of Chronicles stacked on his desk chair, and without a thought he swept the map aside so he could sit on the desk. Warren Cochran and his missing student could wait. Joe was much more important. “How are you, Joe?”

“Oh, you know. The same,” Joe said evasively. “Look, Adam, I don’t have much time. Your messages said that Mac was in trouble. That’s why I called.”

Methos blinked. “That’s true,” he said, unsure whether or not to be offended. “Someone’s resurfaced from Mac’s past, an Immortal named Warren Cochran. I need your take on him.” He hesitated, than pushed on. “But I’d rather spend a few minutes talking to you first. How are you? How’s the bar? It feels like it’s been months since I last had you on the phone.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because it has been.” Joe said flatly. “Warren Cochran? That’s the emergency? Methos, you have nothing to worry about. Cochran and MacLeod were best friends for more than a hundred years. Cochran would never go for MacLeod’s head, and if he did…well, Cochran’s not the world’s best Scotsman with a Claymore. Mac can take him easily.” Joe snorted. “Damn, when I got your message I thought you were going to tell me there was a REAL crisis, like your magic Dark Quickening cure didn’t take or something. Imagine, bothering me over an Immortal like Warren Cochran!”

Methos stared at the phone, stung. “It’s not that simple,” he said slowly. “Cochran seems to have come down with an awfully convenient case of amnesia. He claims not to remember MacLeod or being Immortal at all. It’s got Mac really off balance. I needed to know what you thought of him…not what the Chronicles say, but your personal opinion. Do you think he might be faking?”

“Faking?” Joe’s voice was derisive. “Why on earth would Cochran want to do that?”

“Use your common sense, Joe. To confuse Mac. To get close to him, and take his head.”

“Methos, I don’t think that’s possible. Cochran and MacLeod were close with a capital C. As I’m sure you very well know.” A pause. “I think the only real problem here is that you’re jealous.”

"Excuse me?" The statement was so absurd Methos could hardly believe his ears. “Why on earth should I be jealous?”

“Oh, don’t even start, Methos,” Joe said savagely. “You’ve played that particular verbal game of answering a question with a question way too many times with me in the past; I’m sure as hell not going to fall for it now. I know that you and Mac have been pretty damn chummy ever since you got back to Paris. Mac’s Watchers are all starting to get mighty curious about the tall man in the dark trench coat who keeps sneaking into Mac’s barge under the cover of darkness.”

Methos felt a frisson of shock. Oh, dear. He’d thought he’d been so careful, taking advantage of the traditional Watcher change in shifts whenever he went to Mac’s. “I’ve been seen?”

“Yeah.” Joe gave a humorless chuckle. “Oh, you’ve done a pretty good job so far, I'll give you that. Nobody’s seen your face. And I’ve done what I could to cover your ass, making sure that all Mac’s Watchers are recent Academy grads with no ties to Research, just in case. The current theory is that Mac’s developed connections with the mob, and you’re some kind of shady underworld boss. But I knew it had to be you.” Joe’s voice hardened. “So of course you’re jealous of Cochran. Unless you’re going to tell me that you and Mac have spent the last month just playing chess?”

“We *have* been playing chess,” Methos protested. *Well, mostly. At least after those first two nights. But why should Joe suspect there had ever been anything more? And more to the point, why should he care?* Methos's eyes narrowed. “Not that it's any of your business anyway, Joe. Why should it matter to you whether Mac and I are sleeping together or not?”

“Oh, *I* don’t care at all,” Joe said bitingly. “It’s no skin off my ass if you and MacLeod want to play ‘hide the baguette’ every damn night. What *does* matter to me is what happens when one of Mac’s Watchers realizes that Adam Pierson is sleeping with an Immortal, then comes to ask me why I didn’t report you. That’s all I care about.” There was a long pause, and when Joe spoke again he sounded more sad than angry. “Damn it, Methos. Why didn’t one of you have the decency to tell me you’d taken up again? It was rotten to have to find out from a weekly report.”

The sadness touched Methos. “It’s not like that, Joe,” he said softly, groping for the words to explain. “It’s not like we’ve picked out china patterns or anything. He—I—well, after Alexa I needed someone, that’s all. Duncan was there for me and…” Methos stopped dead, the last words Joe had said suddenly replaying in his mind. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, taken up *again*?”

Silence. Then: “Did I say that?”

The problem with playing verbal games is that, sooner or later, your friends picked up on your favorite tactics and turned them on you. “You know you did!” Methos exclaimed angrily. “Joe, what on earth gave you the idea that Duncan MacLeod and I have ever been lovers? I told you back in Seacouver that we’d never been anything more than friends.”

“Yeah. You told me. You did.”

“So why say it again now?” Methos felt something cold and unpleasant creep down his spine. “Joe, do you know something you’re not telling me? Something about…” He swallowed. “Something about that time I can’t remember?”

There was a very long silence, during which Methos could count every tick of the clock, every beat of his heart. Then, finally, Joe said: “No. I don’t know anything.”

Methos could hear the phoniness in each word. It was too much. “Damn it, Joe Dawson. Don’t you dare try to lie to me!” Methos exploded, slamming his hand into the surface of the desk. “I know you too well.”

“Methos, you don’t know me at all,” Joe retorted. “And I’m beginning to think you like it that way. If you haven’t figured out the truth yet…well, I sure as hell am not going to be the one to fill you in. Just ask yourself this, all right?” Joe’s voice grew bitter. “You’ve been acting pretty strangely for a while now, haven’t you? Leaving Alexa on her own in Greece while you risked your head to save MacLeod from the Dark Quickening. Settling in Paris even though you can barely remember the city at all. Spending two or three nights a week on the barge despite the fact that if a Watcher saw you, your cover as a mortal would be pretty well blown. It’s all pretty weird behavior for an Immortal who only wants to blend into the woodwork, isn’t it? Have you ever stopped to ask yourself *why*?” Methos didn’t answer; his mind was suddenly blank. “Maybe Warren Cochran isn’t the only Immortal around to bury something so deeply in his subconscious that he forgot who he really was," Joe continued harshly. "Maybe he’s not the only one with a secret he’d rather forget.” And then Joe hung up. 

Methos heard the click as though from a great distance, too dazed to really register the sound, too shocked to even hang up the receiver. When the phone started beeping at him angrily, he still didn’t move. It wasn’t until the beeping stopped and the phone lapsed into silence that Methos finally realized he had been sitting in exactly the same spot for much too long, and he shook himself back into thought.

It was like his brain was a computer, and Joe’s words had forced a reboot. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He had indeed been acting strangely. And the aberrations weren’t just limited to his behavior toward MacLeod. They also extended to his attitudes toward his missing years. Nine years that Methos been so content NOT to remember that he hadn’t even bothered to try hacking into his journal files after his first attempt, an attempt that even he could admit was half-hearted. Nine years that meant so little, he’d simply created a new life and persona with the first woman who’d caught his eye, rather than return to Paris to see who he might have left behind. Joe was right. Perhaps his old age and the shock of Kristin’s Quickening had erased the memory—but the only possible explanation for his not overturning every stone to recover it was that there was something he didn’t WANT to remember. Something so horrible and terrifying that Methos had even blinded himself to the knowledge that there was something he wanted to avoid.

*Briiing.* 

The sound of a ringing telephone broke the silence. Methos stared down at the still-disconnected phone on his desk, and finally got his brain in gear enough to realize that the ring was coming from his coat pocket: his cell phone. Of course it would pick this moment to actually work, after being intermittently unreliable all spring. Methos fumbled for it, fingers feeling thick and clumsy, and flipped it open apprehensively. “Hello?”

“Methos.” It was Duncan’s voice, sounding very relieved to have actually got him. “I’m so glad I got you. I—I found out what happened to Andrew Donnelly.”

Cold chill. “Yes?”

“Warren murdered him.” Methos bowed his head; of course. It made sense. There was a long pause, then Duncan spoke hesitantly. “Warren was so upset when he remembered, he wanted me to kill him.”

“Did you?”

“No. Maybe it would have been better if I--but I couldn't. I told him that he'd have to find some way of living with it.” Long pause. “Methos, are you busy? I don’t really want to be on my own right now. I could use some company.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

He met Duncan at a small coffee shop that had become one of their favorite haunts—and god, wasn't that just another aberration, meeting Duncan regularly in a place where any Watcher could have walked by and seen? After each man had a cup of warm beverage to fortify him against the late spring chill they went for a walk, Duncan filling him in on the rest of the story. Methos listened with only half his attention, the rest of him taking what Duncan said and applying it to himself: thinking about the way Cochran’s guilt had been so intense that he’d had to make himself forget the entire Game. *Is that what happened to me?* Methos wondered. *Could I have betrayed someone—you, Highlander?—so badly I couldn’t live with myself, and had to forget we’d had a relationship at all? Is that why Joe’s so convinced we were lovers, and why you never speak of what we were? Is that why your approval matters so much to me now? Could I have hurt you that much?* “I can’t believe that after all these years, Warren was still so attached to the idea of a Free Scotland that he’d be willing to kill for it,” Duncan was saying as they trudged the streets, neatly avoiding the puddles that made the sidewalks an obstacle course. “One comment from Donnelly about how foolish it was and Warren just snapped. Even after all this time, he couldn’t stand to hear a word spoken against Bonny Prince Charlie.”

“Well, it happens that way sometimes,” Methos said absently, slipping easily into lecture mode while his own thoughts continued unchecked. “More often than you’d think, to the ones who are good enough with a sword to have survived a century or two of Immortal life. They live long enough to see the world change in ways they never imagined, and they long so much for some kind of stability that they’ll cling to the political ideals of their first lives with every fiber of their beings. Annie Devlin did it. So did Kassim.” Methos shrugged. “It’s not the best way to go. Clinging to your first identity may help preserve your sanity for a few hundred years, but it also makes you rigid. And rigidity makes you snap, in time.”

“The old fable about the oak tree and the blade of grass,” Duncan said. “Be flexible, or get torn up by the wind. Adapt or die.” He looked at Methos curiously. “Do you think Warren will ever be able to adapt?”

“Maybe,” Methos said. “This current situation could turn out to be a blessing, you know. A bit hard on Donnelly, of course, but maybe it’s exactly Cochran needed. A good shock, something to finally make him see that he can’t serve the Bonny Prince forever. Perhaps this is the tragedy he needs to finally make himself move on.”

“I don’t know,” Duncan said doubtfully. “Two weeks ago he had a wife, a house, a family. Now…he’s a fugitive. He has nothing.”

“He’s alive.”

“Yes, but he killed his own student. I still can’t believe he did that.”

“Come on, MacLeod. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“Maybe—” Duncan took a deep breath, clearly struggling with the questions in his own head. “Maybe I should have left him alone. Maybe he was better off not knowing. Now there’s this terrible thing he’ll have to live with.”

*Good point,* Methos thought. *It *was* a terrible thing—perhaps Cochran really was better off not knowing. And what about me? Should I forget that there are any questions that need to be answered and just go on the way I have been, adapting to present circumstances as best I can? Or should I open up the can of worms, and trust I’ll that I’ll adapt to that? How bad, after all, can it be? Given five thousand years of trauma and tragedies, what could anyone possibly do to me that was so bad I would have to forget? Or what could I have done to someone else?* “Well, we all have things in our past we wish we hadn’t done,” Methos said aloud, trying to the move the argument outside his own head. “I know I do.”

Duncan stopped walking. “So,” he said, and there was a strange intensity in the way he asked the question. “If you had the chance to forget everything, to live life over again, would you?”

And there it was. The crux of the issue, the matter that needed to be decided. Would he, if he could, trade remembering the joy of reading the first draft of Byron’s Don Juan to erase the pain of watching him descend into madness? The blood and violence that came with knowing Kronos for the heady feeling of having truly belonged, and knowing what it was like to rule the entire known world? The love and companionship he’d felt for all sixty-eight of his mortal wives for the agony of losing them? Methos thought, weighing things in his head, balancing the trauma of his history with its joys. And then he made up his mind for once and for all. “No. I wouldn’t,” he answered. “Who would remember Alexa then?”

“Thank you, Methos,” Duncan said. “You always have a way of putting things in perspective.” He hesitated. “Do you want to come back to the barge with me? I can make some coffee.” He looked disparagingly at the cup he’d taken from the shop. “Much better coffee than this.”

“No, Highlander. Not this afternoon. I have things to do.” Like calling up Lindsey and some of his other Watcher friends, and asking them some pointed questions. Like renewing his efforts to hack into his journals. It was time to discover the truth.

“Want some help?”

“No. Not--” A sigh. *Not until I know more. Not until I know if I can trust you or not. Not until I know if I can trust *me.* “Not now, Duncan. Maybe later, I’ll give you a call.” *If I can.*

“All right then.” Duncan was clearly disappointed, but he wasn’t going to argue. “I guess I’ll head back to my place then. Let you get on it with.” He started to turn away. “And Methos?”

“Yes, Highlander?”

“Thanks. For—” A helpless gesture. “Well. You know.”

“Yes. I know.” Methos looked at Duncan’s face, the beautiful eyes that seemed so sorrowful and yet so open, and knew he’d made the right choice. Bad as whatever it was that was hiding behind the cloak of his amnesia, there had to be things about those ten years that were precious too, things that would be like gold in the treasure chest of his memory. Duncan nodded and walked away down the street, leaving Methos with the sincere regret that his mystery wouldn’t be as easy to solve as Warren Cochran’s. Even if he could hack into his journals, even if he could figure out how to interrogate his Watcher friends without arousing their suspicions, it would all be second hand information. He might discover the truth, but he would never be able to reacquire his life, never be able to recall those missing years with the same clarity with which he remembered Alexa’s smile. The memories were gone for good.

Or were they?

 

**_~Seacouver, June 1996~_ **

 

Joe Dawson loved his bar, and he loved its every mood. He loved the quiet Monday nights when only his most diehard regulars came to hear the band rehearse, he loved the Wednesdays when he opened late in order to have a roundtable about the bar’s operation with his staff, and he loved the rollicking weekends when the place was packed and shaking with the sounds of good tunes skillfully played. Still, Joe often thought that the best times of all were these: these bright and early mornings when he could take advantage of the empty bar to play his own kind of song, channeling his feelings out through his fingers. It was Joe’s own private form of meditation, and had become so important that even when the bar didn’t close down until four a.m., he was sure to be there at nine just to have the practice time. Bar-home had now superseded home-home to the point that Joe was seriously thinking about selling his house and getting an apartment within walking distance. It seemed pointless to keep paying for heat and upkeep when all he used the place for was a bed and a shower. Adam had been right, once upon a time. It was pretty easy to tell where his heart really lay.

The thought of Adam raised a heartfelt sigh. It translated through his fingers into a melancholy chord. *Still pining, Joe Dawson?* he thought to himself. *Yeah, I think it’s pretty safe to say you are. Doesn’t matter how much you try to rationalize things by saying Methos was not the Adam you fell in love with. It still hurts, and you still miss him. You shouldn’t have yelled at him like that on the phone yesterday. Shouldn’t have rocked the boat…but you were just so damn mad that the first time he contacted you since Alexa died it was all because of some imagined threat to MacLeod.* The guitar crashed discordantly. *Oh, hell, that’s not fair. You know he tried to call you earlier. He left you dozens of messages that you never returned. But how could you, when the reports from Mac’s Watchers made it clear that the first thing he did after Alexa died was run right back into Mac’s arms? How could you, when he traipsed over half of Europe and did god-knows-what—neither he nor Mac will give you the whole story—to save Mac from himself during the Dark Quickening?* Another discordant crash. *Not that you didn’t want him to, but still…it was hard to sit by the phone those days, remembering that it was *you* he once risked everything for. You he cared about that way...*

*Damn.*

Joe forced himself to gather his emotions together, finally producing a song that at least had a recognizable melody, even if wasn’t a particularly happy one. *Might as well admit it, Dawson,* he thought. *You’ve gotten yourself caught between one hell of a rock and a hard place. Alexa’s gone, so you can no longer use her happiness as an excuse. You’ve either got to make up your mind to tell Methos the truth, or let it go for all time—admit to yourself that the reason you’ve held onto the house this long was because you still hoped to have him visit you there, admit that you’ve wasted most of this last year pining over a relationship that was doomed before it began. Hell, maybe you should do both. Tell him the truth, and then move on when he shakes his head and says he simply doesn’t believe you. You know you wouldn’t blame him if he did. The whole thing was pretty unbelievable right from the start…*

The bar’s phone rang loudly.

Most of the time, the sound of a ringing telephone during Joe’s morning meditations was an intrusion. This morning, it was a welcome distraction. Joe set aside the guitar and laboriously climbed down from the stage, limping across the floor to pick up the phone. “Joe’s,” he said, and listened. To the sound of his old Watcher friend Jack telling him that Duncan MacLeod had lost his final Challenge.

Sometimes, it takes less than a heartbeat for the whole world to change.

***

Mabelline, the kind woman who took the morning shift at the United Airlines reservation desk, was glad to hear from Joe again; it had been a long time since he’d last booked a flight to Paris. Joe gave her his credit card info and drove to his house, packing a bag quickly with shaking hands. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was dead. Try as he would, Joe couldn’t make himself really think about it; it was too soon, too new, too overwhelming. Instead he thought about Methos. Why hadn’t the old Immortal called? Surely he had to know what had happened by now; Parisian Watcher circles must be buzzing with the news. For a moment a treacherous thought…that Methos hadn’t called because he had been the one to take Mac’s head…flickered through Joe’s mind, but Joe dismissed it in a second as a horror even more unbelievable than the already unbelievable fact of Mac’s death. No. It had to be simpler than that. Methos hadn’t called because he’d…Joe swallowed…lost his second lover in less than six months. The Immortal was probably dead drunk, or else he was stalking the streets looking for the asshole who’d done the deed. In either case, the last thing Methos would want to do right now was talk to the mortal idiot who’d been such a jerk the last time he called. Joe checked his watch…he had less than five minutes before his cab arrived to take him to the airport. Well, sometimes a few minutes was all it took to begin to put things right. He picked up the phone, dialed Methos’s new number, and left a message just as the cab drove into his driveway. Then he gathered up his carryon, and went out to meet it.

When he got to Paris it was raining, the same gray, chilling drizzle that had been falling in Seacouver. Looking at it, Joe had the strange feeling that he hadn’t really gone anywhere at all. From cab to airport to plane to airport to cab; the only thing that really seemed to have changed was the language Joe used to give the cabby directions. But even that difference slipped away when they reached MacLeod’s barge, and the cabbie looked at Joe with ill-concealed alarm. “Monsieur?” he said, then spoke in accented English, clearly fearing that Joe was too far out of it to understand anything but his mother tongue. “Are you all right?”

Joe shook his head no, body telling the truth even as his mouth lied. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” The cabbie did not look convinced. Joe forced a smile and gave the man an extravagant tip, thanking him profusely. The cabbie was eventually reassured and drove away, although Joe caught him shooting several curious looks over his shoulder as he did. Never mind. Joe had work to do. He limped to a place where he could see Mac’s home clearly. He should have gone inside, but he just couldn’t make himself walk up the gangplank—it would have felt disrespectful to enter the barge now, too much like disturbing the Highlander’s grave. He pulled out his pocket recorder and began. “Terminal report on the Immortal Duncan MacLeod…”

“Dawson?”

Joe looked up, and saw a ghost.

Duncan MacLeod was running up the quay. He was wearing running shoes, dark grey workout clothes, and a head that was most definitely still attached to his shoulders. For a moment Joe couldn’t believe his eyes. Then Mac shouted “Dawson!” again, and joy flooded Joe’s heart, as overwhelming as any he had ever felt in his life. It didn’t matter that their past was full of rocky places, or that they were both in love with the same man. It was just so damn good to see the Highlander alive. “MacLeod! It’s you!” Joe shouted, and started limping toward him as quickly as his legs would allow. “You son of a bitch. You’re really going to catch hell for this…”

He saw the concern flicker over the Highlander’s face a whole tenth of a second before a car squealed to a stop behind him. Joe heard car doors opening and felt someone brush rudely past his shoulders. “Hey, watch it!” Joe exclaimed testily….just as pain, astonishingly sharp, flared along his shoulder blades. Joe stumbled, and knew with a sickening lurch of his stomach that he was too unbalanced to catch himself and was going to end up face down on the pavement. But then someone grabbed his arms, pulling him back. Joe started to say thanks…and felt the unmistakable coolness of metallic handcuffs being snapped around his wrists, as he was unceremoniously bundled into the back of a black sedan.

He was caught.

***

The morning Methos decided to go in search of his missing memories he woke up early. He rose, showered, made himself a hearty breakfast, and then set about packing up his car: digging out long un-used camping and rock climbing gear, stocking his backpack with enough bottled water and protein bars to keep himself comfortable for several days. Methos didn’t expect to be gone for long…less than a day, if all went well…but sometime it paid to be pessimistic. Especially when you were going to a place only one other person on the face of the earth knew existed, a place where it was quite possible to be trapped for centuries without hope of rescue. Methos briefly considered telephoning Mac to tell him were he was going, then turned the thought aside—until he knew more about what he had lost, he couldn’t trust that the Highlander wouldn’t try to stop him remembering. Methos stared at his loaded car for a long moment, then swiveled on his heel and went back into his office. There he picked up a map, circled his destination on it, wrote careful driving instructions on a separate paper, and slid the whole thing into an envelope which he addressed to Joe’s Bar in Seacouver. After a moment of thought, he opened it again and added a hastily scrawled note: *Decided you were right, Joe. It’s time that I go looking for those missing years. If you get this, assume I’ve gotten trapped and need rescuing. MacLeod will know what you need.* Methos hesitated, added: *Love, Adam* for reasons he didn’t entirely understand, then slid the whole kit and caboodle into a second envelope, which he marked To Be Opened in the Event of My Disappearance. He would drop it off at his lawyer’s on the way out of town.

Packing thus taken care of, there was only one thing left to do: stop by work and arrange for some time off. Methos arrived at the Great Library and knocked on Dr. Zoll’s office door, only to discover that the Head of Special Research Projects was out. This was annoying, but not unworkable. Methos would just have to leave a note on her desk detailing the family emergency he’d made up rather than lie to her in person. However, his conscience…or rather, his desire not to lose his job prematurely…was such that he did bother to look at the list of pending assignments posted under his name in the workroom. He surveyed them with a frown. Most of the assignments could easily be put off; a lot of the translation work he was dragging out on purpose, since his colleagues would be suspicious of anyone who could translate 10,000 words of ancient Sanskrit in less than a day. But there were one or two things he really did need to finish up before he left, just in case. Methos looked at his watch, sighed internally, and sat down at his usual table. He’d just have to put in a couple of hours, and leave that afternoon.

He was busy tracking down an elusive cross-reference in the Black Yajurveda when the shadow fell across his desk. A middle aged man was standing directly in Methos’s light. He moved some of Methos’s papers aside and sat proprietarily on the edge of the desk, smiling a smile that Methos was sure was supposed to be benevolent. It came across as patronizing instead, and Methos instantly felt his hackles rise. “Adam,” the stranger said, putting so much enthusiasm into the word that anyone passing by would have assumed they were very old friends. “How *are* you?”

“Fine,” Methos said shortly. When the man didn’t take the hint Methos added a clipped “Busy” and reached for the papers the man had displaced. He rustled them noisily, universal harried-researcher-speak for “Go Away.”

Unfortunately, the stranger didn’t speak Researcher. *Retired Field Agent. Probably recruited from the military*, Methos thought, noting the man’s ram-rod straight spine, shoulders that remained locked upright despite his pseudo-casual pose, and the mostly trim figure that was only just beginning to show a little middle aged spread. “That’s good,” the man said, nodding vigorously. “Very, very good.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m glad to hear that you’re doing so well, Adam. Especially after enduring such a…difficult…time.”

*Uh-huh. Right,* Methos thought. *We’ve never actually met, and yet you’re desperately concerned about my welfare?* “Yes, well,” he said dismissively. “It helps to stay busy.” He nodded at the papers. “As a matter of fact…”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The stranger stood up. For a moment Methos thought he’d gotten rid of him, but the man merely regarded Methos from a standing position instead. “We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? I’m Jack. Jack Shapiro.” Once again the man leaned forward, lowered his voice in that oddly conspiratorial fashion. “Joe Dawson asked me to come by and see how you were doing.”

*And I’ll see that earlier ‘uh-huh, right’ and raise you an ‘oh, really,’* Methos thought. There was no way on earth that a Joe who had been as angry as the one Methos had talked to yesterday would send someone to check up on him. Besides, the man currently in front of Methos didn’t look like anyone Joe would call a friend. Shapiro’s suit was too neat, his smile too toothy, his manners too oily. Methos stood up, gave the proffered hand the minimalist shake he normally reserved for garbage collectors and tax men, and sat back down. “Adam Pierson.”

“Yes, I know.” The toothy smile grew even wider. “Joe speaks so very highly of you, Adam.”

“Does he now.” The man responded to Methos’s chilly tone with another nod of his head, beaming at Methos like they were the very best friends in the world. Methos cleared his throat. “Are you a friend of Joe’s, Mr. Shapiro?”

“Oh, Joe and I go way back. Way, way back,” answered the man. “We were in the same Academy class. Joe was even the best man at my wedding.” Shapiro placed his hands on the table and leaned into it. “How *is* old Joe, anyway?”

*Uh-huh again. You two are the very best of friends, and you have to ask me?* “I don’t really know,” Methos lied. “I haven’t heard from Joe in quite a while.”

“Really?” Shapiro frowned. “That’s funny. I could have sworn Joe told me he saw you in Seacouver just a short time ago.”

That was enough for Methos. “I haven’t seen Joe in person since I left the States early in the fall. Right before I took my late wife to Greece,” he said sharply. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I really must finish this translation.”

“Oh! Of course,” Shapiro said, but he didn’t move away. Instead he simply started moving his hands in that uniquely masculine time-wasting way: rippling his fingers like he was playing a piano, snapping them, banging his fists together, and repeating the sequence over and over until Methos was ready to scream. “Funny,” Shapiro said distantly. “I was sure Joe said he’d talked to you…you really haven’t been in touch?” Methos shook his head angrily. There was no way he was going to discuss his and Joe’s last conversation with this odious man. “Huh.” Shapiro gave him a blinding smile. “I guess that’s why he wanted me to check in on you, then.”

“Must be,” Methos responded, his tone growing chillier by the moment. What the hell was going on here? “Well, you can tell him that I’m doing nicely. Just *busy*.”

Methos turned his chair to the side and started rifling through the papers he had stacked on the library cart by the desk, hoping that when he turned back the man would have gone away. It didn’t work. When he straightened up Shapiro was still there. But at least the odious smile was gone. It was replaced by an ever-so-worried frown. “Look, Pierson,” Shapiro said quietly. “I’ll be honest with you. Joe didn’t send me.”

Methos raised his eyebrows and arranged his features into a look of polite interest. *Tell me something I didn’t already know.* “Your supervisor did,” Shapiro continued smoothly. “Dr. Zoll—she’s quite concerned about you, Adam.”

Methos blinked. “She is?”

Shapiro nodded sagely. “We all are,” he said, in a miserable attempt at a soothing tone. “It’s very clear to us that you’ve been overworking yourself, Adam. And that’s only natural. After a time like you’ve just gone through, of course a man wants to throw himself into his work. But you’ve been overdoing it. We all think it’s time you took a small leave of absence.” He straightened up, and when Methos simply continued to stare at him in disbelief he flung his arms wide. “Get out of town for a while. Or—I know. Your lease expired last month, didn’t it? I know you just signed the papers on a new place a few weeks ago. You can’t have had time to fully settle in yet. You must want to take some time to unpack and sort through your things, really get moved in. You could take a short vacation and get started on that.”

Methos felt a trickle of ice go down his spine. He hadn’t told any of his coworkers about his old lease expiring; most of them had just assumed he’d moved into his most recent apartment when he’d returned to Paris. Methos didn’t have to ask how this strange man knew about his personal affairs. He wore the tattoo on his wrist; Watching was what he did. But the notion that the vast Watcher resources had, for some reason, been turned on Adam Pierson was coldly sobering. “Vacation,” he repeated.

“It’s not a dirty word, Adam.” Jack flicked one of the papers on the desktop with his fingertip. “I know it must seem so to a Watcher as…dedicated…as you have proven yourself to be, but really. Every now and then, taking time off is the best thing a man can do. Especially if he wants to keep his career advancing the way it should.” Jack walked around the table and placed one of his hands on Adam’s shoulder. He bent in close, his voice lowered to a library whisper. “Now is an especially good time for *friends of Joe Dawson* to learn that lesson. Do you understand me?”

Jack’s face was still blandly benevolent, but Methos hadn’t lived as long as he had without learning to recognize a threat when he heard one. He nodded, throat dry. “Very good!” Jack exclaimed, clapping Methos heartily on the back. “I’ll tell Dr. Zoll that you’re going to take the next two weeks off, then. She’ll be pleased.” He started to walk out, and then paused at the archway. “Oh, and Adam?”

His voice was loud enough to attract the attention of all the other Watchers in the library. “Yes, Mr. Shapiro?”

“If you’ve been out of touch with Joe for a while, I wouldn’t rush right out to correct that problem. He’s a very busy man, you know. It wouldn’t do to bother him.”

Oh, yes. Definitely a threat. Methos nodded, trying not to show how badly he was shaken. “Of course not, Mr. Shapiro,” he said. “I’ll…I’ll just come back and pick up where I left off in two weeks, then?”

Jack gave him another toothy smile. “Can’t imagine what would prevent it,” he said. “Stay safe, Adam. Enjoy your vacation. Try not to fall in with bad company.”

“Of course not, Mr. Shapiro.”

Methos left the library and got into his car. He could hardly believe it when a black sedan with darkened windows quietly peeled itself out from amongst the other cars gathered in the researcher’s parking lot and nonchalantly followed him out. When the sedan followed him through several unnecessary turns on the way to his flat, Methos knew he was being tailed. But why? And why now? He’d thought he was so safe here. The rogue Watchers who’d discovered his secret during the Methuselah stone debacle had all been killed. There was no reason for anyone to be Watching him. Unless there was something more buried in the missing ten years than the origins of his strange push-pull relationship with MacLeod. Something to do with Joe…

Methos parked in front of his walk. The sedan drove smoothly past him, then parked within sight of his front door up the block. Damn. Methos’s pack, filled and ready, was still sitting patiently on the passenger seat next to him, but there was no way he could risk leaving now. The Watchers could not be allowed to follow him on his quest. Having them learn of his destination would be betraying a scared trust. It was already bad enough that he’d let MacLeod in on it, bad enough that he’d almost betrayed the secret to Joe. Carefully looking over his shoulder at the sedan, Methos slid his hand into the glove box where he’d left the letter and map for Joe, and tore the enveloped into a dozen neat pieces. Then he tucked the pieces under his coat and left the car.

He could hear the muffled sound of a car door opening the moment he took out his key. Purposefully ignoring it, Methos let himself in just as casually as if there was nothing wrong. But the moment the front door was fully closed Methos threw himself against the wall behind it, pressing himself flat against it so he could look out the window without being seen. Shit, shit, shit. It only took one peek to confirm his worst suspicions: a male figure, dressed in the traditional “inconspicuous” black Watcher coat, was standing under the streetlight across the street. Methos went into his office and fed the torn pieces of the map envelope to his shredder. No matter what else happened, his intended destination had to be protected. 

A blinking light on his answering machine caught his eye. Methos hesitated a long moment before pressing play. MacLeod sometimes left messages fro him on this line; what if the Watchers had a bug planted somewhere that would overhear one? But that was ridiculous. If he assumed that the Watchers had bugged his home, then they would have already heard the message coming in. Not listening would simply deny himself information the enemy already had. He hit the button, and almost stopped breathing when he heard Joe’s voice. 

“Yeah, hi Adam,” the recorded message said. “Look, I’ll keep this short. I know you must have heard the news by now…and you haven’t called me. Which means you’re either too mad at me to want to talk, too drunk to be capable of speech, or too busy hunting for the bastard that did this to pick up the phone. I…I really hope it’s the second one, Adam. I can’t say I know how you must feel, but he was my friend too, and I…” Joe’s voice broke. “Well, anyway,” he continued after a moment, making a clear effort to recover himself. “I’m taking flight 20034 to Paris. I should be on the ground by 1:30 at the latest. Call my cell when you get this, all right? We’ll get together, have a drink or ten, and then figure out what to do. If you want to go after him I won’t try to stop you…hell, I’ll even hold your coat…but I don’t want you to do it alone, not after what happened last time. You need someone there to look after you…so just wait for me, okay?” Another pause, during which Methos heard a car horn blare. “Damn, that’s my cab for the airport,” Joe swore. “I have to run. God, I haven’t even tried to call Richie or Amanda yet. I guess I was sort of hoping I’d have you at my side when I did. Well, that can wait, Adam. For now I guess I’ve said everything I need to, except this…forget about all that crap I loaded on you when we talked yesterday, okay? I was nuts, I should never have said anything. At a time like this…well, we’ve both lost too much this year to be fighting. Just forget about it, and call me as soon as you can. Thanks.” And Joe hung up.

Leaving an extremely perplexed Methos staring at the phone.

He spent the next several hours feeling like a trapped animal, pacing behind the curtains while unanswerable questions filled his mindless. At dusk the Watcher at the lamppost was replaced by an identically dressed newcomer; it was time for Methos to give his carefully honed Watcher Avoidance skills a good workout. Methos waited for complete darkness to arrive. Then he dressed in his best head-to-toe black housebreaking outfit and left his apartment on foot, heading directly for the Watcher. “Evening,” he said with polite nod as he passed by.

The Watcher under the lamp post looked startled, but returned his greeting. He waited until Methos had reached the corner, then hurriedly folded his paper and started after him….only to look blankly down a street that was apparently empty of pedestrians. Methos, who had used the cover of a passing lorry to cross the street and was now hidden behind a convenient tree, shook his head in disgust. Well, at least it was comforting to know that the Watchers only considered him a mild threat, too mild to warrant a field agent with any real intelligence. Joe would never have fallen for such a simple trick. “Amateur,” Methos said disdainfully, and headed the opposite way, expertly losing himself in the ever-present Parisian fog. The perplexed Watcher was left standing with a baffled look on his face. 

There had never been any question of Methos’s destination. Methos could no more have stayed away from MacLeod’s reassuring strength tonight than he could have stopped breathing. He couldn’t risk directly going directly into the barge; instead he simply pulled his collar up high to hide his face and walked by the boat on his way to the nearby tunnels, confident that his buzz would flush Duncan out the way a glimpse of a deer would stir a hunter. It worked, too. Methos only had to wait a few minutes before he felt Duncan’s own buzz approach him, and heard the Highlander’s confident voice ringing out in the enclosed space. “I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

“Yes, I know,” Methos said irritably, stepping out of the shadows only to find a katana at his throat. He hissed softly, sucking in his breath.

Duncan pulled the sword back. “Sorry,” he said, although his tone said he wasn’t in the least bit sorry at all. “I was expecting someone else.”

“Not a close friend, I assume?”

“No. Not a friend at all.” Duncan turned away, his eyes scanning the tunnels. His next words took Methos by total surprise. “Dawson was here this morning. Someone grabbed him outside the barge, forced him into a car and drove him away. I was too slow to stop them.”

“What? Someone kidnapped Joe?” *So Joe was serious, then, when he said he was coming to Paris. He really was here in the city. Why? What news was it that he’d assumed I heard? And why the hell would anyone want to abduct him?* “Who?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re after me. It wouldn’t be the first time an Immortal held one of my friends captive in order to force me into a Challenge.” Duncan paced slowly back and forth, as tightly strung as a guitar string. “Damn him. What was he doing here, anyway?”

*Coming to see me,* Methos thought, heart sinking. *Coming to keep me from doing “something stupid”, whatever the hell that meant. Could Duncan be right? Could somebody be using Joe to get to him…or even me? And how does Jack Shapiro fit into all this?* “Look, something is going on with the Watchers,” Methos told Duncan hesitantly, unsure of how much to tell him, or even if it was connected at all. “Security’s intense. That’s why I didn’t come to the barge…”

“Well, you’re going to have to find who is out there for me,” Duncan interrupted. “Security or no security. I’ve got to know who’s out there.”

Methos bit down on his lip, annoyed that Duncan hadn’t listened, hadn’t even waited for him to finish the sentence. Did the man thing he was the only one facing difficulties? “Look, if I start questioning too many people, *they* start questioning *me*,” he said testily. “Duncan, I don’t think you understand what’s really…”

Once again, MacLeod didn’t wait for Methos to finish the sentence. “You owe him,” he said.

“That’s not the—“

“You owe him,” Duncan repeated quietly.

Methos found himself staring into a very determined pair of Highland eyes, the sudden overwhelming buzz of Duncan’s presence all he could feel or hear. “Oh, no, no, no,” Methos stuttered, completely off balance. “No,” he finished weakly, and wondered just what it was he was really denying.

Duncan, for his part, didn’t give him a chance to recover. “Oh yes, you do,” he said decisively. “Methos, what other Watcher would have kept your secret? That you’re an Immortal masquerading as a Watcher named Adam Pierson?”

“That was his choice!”

“Yes. It was.”

Methos opened his mouth to tell MacLeod that it wasn’t helping Joe he objected to, it was just the way MacLeod insisted on going about it …but the intense hum of MacLeod’s Quickening just redoubled, making him feel like his body was breaking apart. “Okay,” he surrendered, head spinning, suddenly willing to say or do anything to make it stop. “I’ll find out what I can.”

And the hum disappeared as quickly as it had come. Duncan smiled, and Methos felt the Highlander’s pleasure to the very tips of his toes. The dark tunnel suddenly seemed brighter, the world a happier place. “Good,” Duncan said. He clapped Methos on the shoulder and left.

Methos looked after him fondly, pleased that Duncan was pleased….until the moment the Highlander was out of sensing distance. Then Methos suddenly sagged, feeling very shell shocked and weak. What the hell had just happened? Because he was Methos, and because he still had a little self respect left, he groused a quip to the tunnel walls: “I spent years losing my conscience only for him to go and find it again,” but the words sounded hollow. This encounter had nothing to do with his conscience or lack thereof. What it had to do with was why, when it came down to a question of what he wanted or what Duncan wanted, he always found himself giving in to Duncan’s will—and why he was always genuinely happy once he had. It was like whenever he was around Duncan part of his mind transformed into that of a beloved pet. Or a slave …

Methos shuddered. He’d been a slave often enough in the past to know what it felt like to have a mind so cowed that one honestly took pleasure in one’s own servitude, and the parallels were chilling. He stared down the tunnel, wondering just when and how the Highlander had acquired such power over him, and came to a decision. He would do what he could to find out what had happened to Joe—there had to be more behind Shapiro’s strange behavior than met the eye, he would start there. But after that…well, there was no way he could help Joe or even himself as long as this mystery was hanging over his head. It was time for this hole in his memory to be healed. 

It was time to fulfill his quest.

***

“Damn it, who are you? Where the hell are we going?”

Joe’s assailants had wasted no time in blindfolding him. The tightly tied black scarf had descended over his eyes the moment he was in the car, which was a damn shame. Judging from the sound effects, MacLeod hadn’t let him go without a fight, and the Highlander must have put on one heck of a show, if the swearing and exclamations from Joe’s captors were anything to go by. Still, it was ultimately unsuccessful. Squealing its tires, the car had sped away. And Joe no longer had any idea where he was.

Now he was being herded across some kind of wooden floor, his footsteps ringing out loudly, as if he was in a very large bare room. It was strangely terrifying, not being able to see what was in front of him. Joe kept expecting to run into a wall or other obstacle with every step. Sure enough, a rug or something on the floor tripped him up, and Joe would have toppled if it wasn’t for the sudden brutally steadying hands of his kidnappers. Joe felt a deep shame at his vulnerability, and that made him angry, at both his captors and himself. “Damn it, if you took this off I could walk!” he swore, and when there was no answer something inside him shriveled, the true helplessness of his situation dawning on him. “Okay, okay,” Joe said in defeat. “You got me, I’m helpless. Just tell me what’s going on.”

The blindfold was torn from his face, bright light lancing into his dilated pupils. When Joe’s eyes finally adjusted and he could see the room around him, he almost wished for the blindfold back. He was standing in some sadist’s idea of a children’s nursery, surreal life-size tin soldiers and fairy tale figures painted on the walls. He managed to turn around just in time to see two black-clad figures slam the double doors closed. When Joe tried to open them again, the locked doors merely rattled infuriatingly. “Open up!” Joe yelled. “Open up! Who the hell *are* you?”

There was no answer. Joe hammered on the doors a little longer, then slumped disconsolately in the nearest chair. It looked like he was going to be there for quite a while.

***

The annoyingly bright and cheerful Donald Duck clock had ticked off more than eight hours before the doors opened again. Joe, who had had read his way through the entire Curious George series and more Dr. Seuss than any grown man should ever be forced to read in one day, had taken to playing with the toys—otherwise he was going to start rhyming made up words every time he spoke. “Well, if it isn’t Ken and Barbie!” he said cheerfully when two well-suited thugs entered and grabbed him by the arms. “Love the décor fellas…all right, all right. I’m coming.” He looked at them curiously as they bundled him out of the chair. “Little careless, aren’t we? I’ve seen your faces now.”

The chilling response: “It won’t matter,” shut him up completely as he was herded through a very large French chalet, sheet-covered furnishings stretching as far as the eye could see. His captors led him down a long, creaky stairwell to a chilly, cavernous space that had probably been the chalet’s wine cellar once upon a time. It was dark, except for a bright light that shone directly into Joe’s eyes. The thugs gave Joe a little push and he stumbled forward, severely off balance in this place of shadows and echoes. He reached for what was left of his courage. “If you were going to kill me, you would have by now,” he said. “So just tell me what you want, give me a clue. What is going on? Who are you guys?” There was no answer, and Joe felt his voice rise sharply with desperation. “If it’s money you want, you’ve got the wrong guy! It’s a mistake!”

“It’s no mistake, Joe.”

It was like the climax of a bad spy movie. The light shifted, and suddenly Joe was able to see a man in front of him, a man sitting at a long table with his hands folded. It was a man he knew. “Jack?” he said, voice hoarse. “Jack, is that you?”

“I wish I could say it was good to see you, Joe.”

“What the hell is this about?” Joe demanded. “You snatch me off the street, you lock me up—and you’re my own people? Damnit, Jack, you’re my friend!”

“That’s why I’m here to judge you.”

There was something in Jack’s tone of voice, a sort of smug sanctimoniousness, that made Joe take a second look. Oh, shit. He’d seen that expression before—that touch of insane self righteousness that said the owner of the expression was no longer playing with a completely full deck. *As if kidnapping me and throwing me into a nursery wasn’t clue enough already.* Joe swallowed, suddenly very, very afraid. “Judge me for what?”

Jack nodded at the shadows. “Tell him.”

A tall, thin man stepped into the light—Joe groaned aloud. The man was Charles Tarvise, ass-kisser first class. Joe remembered his silent, disapproving presence from the trial they’d put him through after Horton. Tarvise looked very pleased to be here now. He read aloud in his best sonorous voice: “Joseph Dawson, you are charged with betraying your oath. For falsifying Chronicles. And for consorting with an Immortal. How do you plead?”

*Falsifying Chronicles, consorting with a mortal….oh, shit. They know. Somehow, they’ve found out about Methos.* Terror ran through Joe’s body. If he could have, he would have slumped to the floor. But he couldn’t give in. Maybe they didn’t know everything yet. Maybe there was still a chance he could bluff his way out of this. “I don’t believe this,” he said, and hoped that nobody else would notice the way his hands were shaking. “You haul my ass all the way to Paris for this?”

“In the past three years, we’ve lost eighty agents. In the fifty years before that, we lost two.”

“So?”

“So,” Jack said. “It’s been just three years since you had that first little talk with MacLeod.” He shook an admonitory finger at Joe. “You should have kept your mouth shut, Joe.”

“Now we have to shut it for you,” Tarvise said smugly.

Joe’s relief was so strong his legs almost buckled. “MacLeod? This is about my friendship with MacLeod?” he said. “Jesus Christ, Jack! The Council cleared me of all charges on *that* count more than three years ago. Hell, they even gave me a special commendation. MacLeod had to be told the truth…we would never have discovered Horton’s treachery if I hadn’t…”

“The Council never intended for you to continue your friendship with the Immortal MacLeod after the crisis ended,” Jack interrupted. “And they certainly never intended for you to become involved with MacLeod’s Immortal friends. Don’t try to deny it; we know it’s true. You’ve become very…intimately acquainted…with the Immortal Amanda Montreaux. And you’ve befriended MacLeod’s young student, as well.”

Joes raised his eyebrows. *Intimately acquainted, Jack? You think I’ve been sleeping with Amanda? Sorry to disappoint you buddy…it’d make a hell of a photo for the next employee newsletter…but if you think that’s what’s been going on, you clearly haven’t seen Amanda lately. There’s a lady who doesn’t have to rely on old, broken down bluesmen to get her kicks. Nope. I’m afraid I’ve only ever had sex with one Immortal, and if there is any god at all you will never find out which one. You still haven’t mentioned him yet…maybe, just maybe, he’s still safe…* 

Jack cleared his throat. “Heaven only knows how far the two of them have spread our secret,” he said severely. “In light of recent developments, Joe, the Watchers have decided to re-open your case.” His expression became very grim. “Sometimes, even the Council makes mistakes. When we do, we clean them up.”

“Fine,” Joe said, heart beating wildly. *He still didn’t mention Methos. Thank you, thank you god.* “If you want me out, I’m gone. No fuss, no muss. I’ll sign over the bar to anyone you say. The way the last few years have gone, I’d be happy to take an early retirement.” His lip curled, more snarl than smile. “And you can keep the gold watch.”

“You’re not being dismissed for your crimes.” Tarvise sounded shocked. “It’s gone far beyond that.”

“Oh?”

“An example must be made.” Tarvise smiled thinly, and Joe had the feeling that he would have danced a spirited jig if he could have. Tarvise’s eyes gleamed with the joy some kinds of people take at delivering extremely bad news, and internally Joe shook his head…what a slime ball. However, Joe would never in his life have expected the “bad news” to be as horrible as what came out of Tarvise’s mouth next.

“Joe Dawson, if we decide you are guilty, the penalty is death.”

***

The Holy Spring was right where she should have been, glowing softly in the dark. Methos could see her in the shadows when he lowered himself down to the sacred cave’s floor, glimmering at the end of the path MacLeod’s feet had so recently tread. He could taste the presence of her waters in the air, an overwhelming note of metallic purity in a world of rock and dust. For a moment Methos questioned his own wisdom in coming. The climbing rope he’d used was light and strong, woven from the strongest artificial fibers man had devised so far, but if something went wrong and the line came unmoored Methos would be trapped. He reflected ironically that there would be a certain poetic justice if he did. He had, after all, sent MacLeod down into this very cave with the intention of trapping him if the Holy Spring didn’t heal the Dark Quickening; maybe it was only fair that the fates had a chance to wreck the same revenge on him. After all, he had no idea who or what he’d be when he came out…

But he’d chosen his path, and it was time to follow it to its end. Methos checked the mooring on the line a final time, then headed deeper into the cave, guided by the Holy Spring’s eternal glow. “Look at you,” he said quietly when he reached her, staring reverently into the emerald depths. “You’re just as beautiful as ever. The last time I was here, I was too preoccupied to really look at you, but I see it now; you haven’t aged a day, haven’t so much as a pebble out of place. You’re as Immortal as I am, but as unchanging as I am not. Have you ever wondered why that is?”

His only answer was a faint pulse of light, rhythmic as a heartbeat, deep within the pool. Methos dropped to his knees, letting his fingers brush the surface of the water. He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting the soul-aching cleanliness of the pool, so clear and magnificent that the slight salty taste of his own skin beneath it stood out like a drop of ink in a perfectly pure bottle of water. “No, I imagine you don’t,” he murmured, rolling the taste along his tongue. “You simply are what you are, aren’t you? No time for questioning, no time for self doubts…it doesn’t matter that you no longer belong, that there’s no longer a place in the world outside for your kind of magic. And maybe that’s what’s saved you all this time, hmmm? You can’t exist out there, and so the world has made space for you, lets you live unmolested in this corner like a gracious aunt who’s too dignified to remind her relatives that they’ve forgotten her. It makes me wonder what I would have become if I had stopped trying to adapt. Would I have perished, been run over by the new order as I always assumed? Or would I simply have come to my own place, set outside the flow of time in the same way you have?” The waters twinkled at him, and Methos lowered his gaze. “Never mind. I made my choice to stay in the world millennia ago, and I’m not here to ask questions there are no answers for. Instead, I’m here to ask for the return of something I seem to have misplaced. Do you know what that is?”

Another twinkle. “Yes, of course you know. But I have to ask outright, don’t I? That’s part of the bargain. Very well.” Still on his knees, Methos edged backward until he could press his torso into the earth, stretching out his arms out in classic obeisance. He felt the water grow warmer under his fingertips, and thought he heard a subtle chime of what could be pleased laughter. Well, the spring was a Lady, after all. And what lady didn’t like to be shown respect? “Holy Lady of the Holy Waters,” he said softly. “She Who Has Been Called By A Thousand Names; I call upon you now in your aspect as The Mirror. Reflect to me what I cannot see; show me what has been hidden. As your humble supplicant, I beg you.”

A warm tendril of mist slowly rose from the surface. It twined around Methos’s arms and touched him under his chin like a caressing hand, raising him up, urging him to look into the pool. He did, and instead of seeing faint green depths, the pond had now become as smooth and reflective as glass. Methos looked at his own face…the smooth pale skin, the rumpled dark hair, the inescapable eyes that had glared back at him from a thousand surfaces throughout the millennia…and watched as his image suddenly split into two, dividing as neatly as a cell undergoing mitosis. For a moment Methos stared at the two faces now presented to him, wondering which was real and which was imagined, and then he understood. The Mirror never reflected falsehood. “Yes, Mother, I understand,” he said humbly. “I’ve lost my memory, part of myself. Where has it gone? How do I get it back?”

For answer, the mist rose up again, forming into two arms that urged him forward into the water. *Break through the surface, beloved one,* said a gentle voice in his head. *Shatter the illusion. It may be painful, but it is the only way to recover what you’ve lost. Become whole again, in my arms.*

Methos swallowed. He got to his feet, stripping off his clothes and boots with clumsy hands, knowing that all his twentieth century trappings must be left behind. He could not defile the Lady by bringing anything with him that was not truly his. Then he stepped in, letting the warm water caress his skin as he sank into the middle of the pool. 

Shock…

***

It had taken some detective work, but eventually Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had tracked down the new Watcher Headquarters. He parked his car far away and approached the old chalet stealthily on foot, glaring at the place as if it had offended him deeply. It had. He didn’t know just what the Watchers wanted with Joe, but this trial, held in secret with all the terrors of thuggish intimidation, smacked of everything Duncan MacLeod hated. His plan at this point was simple: find a way in, figure out what was going on, and then…he wasn’t sure what. Rescue Joe, if he could. After that, who knew?

Perhaps it was time that the Watchers learned they weren’t as powerful as they thought. 

Duncan was just making his way through the trees toward the chalet’s back entrance when he felt it…a strong Immortal Buzz. Again. Tantalizing, just beyond range of his sight and ears, as it had been for all the time he’d been trying to find where the Watchers were holding Joe. Duncan drew his sword, each and every tree in the light woods around him suddenly becoming an enemy in its own right, blocking him from seeing whoever had been following him. He moved to the left and could see nothing. Moved right…still nothing, although the Buzz increased in power. He was getting closer. Closing his eyes to everything but that feeling, he drew his sword…

And discovered not the stranger who had been dogging him for days, but Methos, Ivanhoe drawn. They froze at exactly the same moment, and then Methos was quickly tucking the sword away. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, voice harsh with self mockery as he quickly placed a tree between himself and the house. “People will start to talk.”

Duncan ignored the quip, his anger rising. “Where the hell have you been?” was what he wanted to ask, no, what he wanted to demand. Methos had met him briefly in the park two days before to tell him that it was the Watchers who had taken Joe in order to put him on trial, but ever since then he had been impossible to reach. It had been up to Duncan to find out where Joe was being held, something that incensed the Highlander deeply. Duncan wouldn’t have put it into these words consciously, but no matter what their private differences over the last year had been, Joe Dawson was Clan. Therefore, rescuing him from whatever mess he’d gotten himself into this time was Clan business. And since it was Clan business, Methos, who was also Clan, should have been at Duncan’s side while Duncan ran all over creation trying to find him. At the very least, Methos should have been answering his phone! But experience had taught MacLeod that direct accusation rarely worked where Methos was concerned. If there was a round about way to go, it was always better to take it. So he said: “I thought you said you didn’t know where Joe was being held.”

Methos looked him over, and Duncan noticed two things. First, Methos seemed to be having a very hard time focusing on him, one moment staring him in the eye with the shocked expression of a man who had never seen another Immortal before, the next letting his gaze skitter away to the trees or the soil as if he was ashamed of what he’d seen. Second, Methos looked incredibly tired, his pale face even paler than usual, the skin around his eyes irritated and drooping. “I *didn’t* know. I….managed a little research, okay?” he said, and frowned. “How did you find out?”

“I did a little research of my own.” *You’re not the only one capable of finding things out, Methos,* Duncan added silently. *Even though I should never have had to do it by myself.*

Methos flinched as if slapped, and for a confused second Duncan thought he’d actually voiced the unspoken thoughts aloud. But no. “MacLeod…Joe’s in enough trouble as it is,” Methos said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you should?”

“I—” There was a long hesitation from the other Immortal, and Duncan wondered what kind of lie was going to come out next, veiling what kind of the truth. But he was surprised. When Methos spoke again, there was an undeniable ring of honesty in his words…well, honesty mixed with a whole heap of bitterness, but no prevarication. “Well, it’s like you said,” he answered. “I owe him.”

Duncan’s expression softened. “Glad to hear it,” he said warmly, and watched Methos relax ever so slightly. *Good,* Duncan thought. *He’s finally starting to get it—starting to understand that he’s part of a family. I’ve got to be easy on him. God only knows how long it’s been since Methos belonged to anything but himself. No wonder he finds it so hard to live up to his responsibilities, to trust that it’s worth risking his safety for others. It’s going to take some time for him to realize that there’s more to life than being perfectly secure. But he’s here, even if he is a little late. He’s here, and that’s a start.* “Come on,” Duncan said. “Let’s figure a way in.”

He once again started making his way through the trees. Methos followed at his heels. 

***

They’d had to bring up Lauren Gale. 

Joe, push so far beyond anger now that he had lapsed into a kind of numb disbelief, had felt his hands clench into fists as Tarvise told the other Council members all about his and Lauren’s supposed love affair, her murder, and Duncan MacLeod’s subsequent Challenge to the Immortal responsible for her death. Damn it. Had they really been spying on him all these years? If not, who had they interrogated to get this information? Mike? The rest of his staff? Had his coworkers betrayed him willingly, or had they been forced? And for God’s sake, why did they have to drag *Lauren* into this mess? Joe remembered the sweetness of the deceased art expert, her intelligence, her easy compassion and willingness to be his stand-in proof of heterosexuality when the world required one. Lauren deserved much better than to have her memory sullied by this…this farce. The only silver lining Joe could see was that his alleged relationship with her was protecting Adam. *Forgive me, Lauren,* he thought when Tarvise closed his mouth at last. *I don’t want to lie about what you were, what you did for me. But somehow I don’t think you’d mind. Maybe, wherever you are, you’ll even be pleased to know that our old conspiracy is still protecting me. I hope so.* “I don’t deny I loved her,” Joe said staunchly when Tarvise finally finished, knowing that the Tribunal expected him to defend himself and they way he’d gotten MacLeod involved in avenging Lauren’s death. “I don’t deny I’m human.”

MacLeod stepped in then, trying to argue that he would have gone after Thorne eventually whether or not Joe had been involved. Joe knew in his heart that it was hopeless. The council had already made up its mind. Problem: Eighty unexplained Watcher deaths. Solution: one convenient scapegoat. Enter Joe Dawson, baa baa baa. Joe was tempted to place his hand on the side of his head and jump up and down bleating, fingers wiggling like ears, except that would be making a mockery of Mac’s gesture, and Joe wouldn’t do that for the world. The Highlander hadn’t had to come after him, not after the year they’d had. Didn’t have to risk his life storming into a chalet full of people who knew how to kill him permanently. Didn’t have to agree to stand trial at Joe’s side. Actually, it would probably have been better if he hadn’t…but it was heart warming, all the same. Joe sighed and shuffled his feet as the argument continued, tuning out the sound of angry voices; that’s why he was looking at Mac when the oddest expression crossed the Highlander’s face, an expression Joe knew well. MacLeod was sensing another Immortal? Here? Joe suddenly felt cold all over. This couldn’t be good…

And it wasn’t. Joe’s heart sunk even further when he saw Methos struggling against a cadre of Watcher Security guards, clearly trying to force his way into the room. “Please! Two minutes, please!” Methos shouted. 

Joe felt something deep inside him twist. “MacLeod,” he hissed, carefully keeping his voice low enough that only the Highlander could hear him. “What the hell is he doing here?”

MacLeod’s eyes took on a pained expression, although he kept a forced grin on his lips. “Didn’t I tell you?” he said out of the side of the mouth, resolutely keeping his eyes forward. “He’s the one who told me who had kidnapped you. He distracted the guards at the gate when I broke in.”

“He what?” Joe couldn’t believe his ears. “Damnit, MacLeod! It’s bad enough that you came. How could you let *him* get involved in this?”

“Shhhh,” Duncan warned, and Joe snapped to attention, placing the same forced grin on his own face. “It wasn’t my idea,” Duncan whispered as Methos was hauled to the front of the room. “He showed up here of his own accord, and as for this…” The Highlander gestured at Methos and the guards. “This wasn’t part of the plan. I have no idea what he’s up to.”

“Well, we’d better hope *he* knows,” Joe murmured. 

Methos had been released in front of Shapiro’s table. He was trying to regain his breath and straighten out his clothes while maintaining some semblance of dignity. “Who are you?” Tarvise demanded.

“My name is Adam Pierson. I’m in research,” the Immortal answered, and Joe felt that same thing inside his gut that had twisted earlier give another horrid spasm. Because it wasn’t Methos who was standing at the front of the room. It really was Adam Pierson—and not just any Adam Pierson. Not Alexa’s Adam, nor the weird Methos/Adam hybrid that had been living in Paris for the last three months. Joe’s Adam. He knew that voice, had that slump-shouldered posture and nervous movements of the hands imprinted on his heart. Terror stronger than anything Joe had felt so far rose up in him. He wanted to shout at Adam to get the hell out of here, to get back to safety and the light. But he could only stand and watch.

"We don’t need the opinions of researchers,” Tarvise sneered.

Adam was not cowed. “Maybe,” he agreed, straightening his clothes and gathering his composure with a clear effort. “But I didn’t come to give you an opinion. I came to give you this.” He produced something from under his coat. Joe, like everyone else in the room, squinted to make it out clearly in the dark room. It looked like an old book…not a Chronicle, since it wasn’t stamped with the ages-old Watcher insignia, but very elderly and fragile just the same. Joe would have guessed it dated back to the 16th century. “I found this in an Italian library, mislabeled as a fairy tale,” Adam continued, his voice ringing out clearly despite his obvious nervousness. “It’s the private journal of a Watcher. A…Methos…Watcher.”

Methos. There was a ripple of surprise from the assembled Watchers as the mythic name fell from Adam’s lips. Joe could only close his eyes. Oh, god. What was the kid doing now? But Tarvise remained unimpressed. “Watchers don’t keep journals,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

*Arrogant prick* Joe thought to himself. *I’m sure you never have…you don’t have the brains to write anything beside the dullest of field reports…but what on earth makes you assume everyone else has the same lack of creativity? I certainly kept a private journal…and so, I’m sure, have countless others. Asshole.* “Well, this one had to,” Adam continued bravely, ignoring Tarvise’s scorn. “You see, he…found out a great deal about his subject. And the more he came to know him, the more he came to like him. To…to admire him.”

MacLeod rolled his eyes softly. Joe just kept staring at the book. He vividly remembered the conversation in his office about his own journal: “You knew?” “Jo-oe. You’re a Watcher. Observe and Record is imprinted on every cell in your body. It’s got be killing you that you can’t tell anybody what you’ve learned. Of course you need an outlet. I understand.” Had Joe not been the first, then, to need that outlet? Had Adam had other Watcher friends…Joe swallowed…or lovers…who had written down what they learned? His mouth itched to ask the question, just as his fingers itched to touch the book, but he could not. He had to stand still and wait.

Meanwhile, Shapiro was looking at Adam with a fond-but-patronizing expression. “I’m sure there’s a point in there somewhere, son,” he said.

“They became friends. But because of our rules, he couldn’t put it into his report,” Adam explained. He looked around at the impassive faces around him and raised his voice, gesturing eagerly with his hands. “Think about it! The man knew Methos! What stories they must have shared! What histories we may now know if we didn’t force men like him…” Adam looked back over his shoulder. Joe met Adam’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered, seeing sadness and affection and…could it be? Recognition, clearly written in the hazel depths. “And Joe Dawson,” Adam finished softly, love and pride clear in the pronunciation. Joe felt his chest go tight. Adam’s eyes lingered on his face for a moment longer, then he resolutely returned his gaze to Shapiro. “To hide what they have learned,” he picked up neatly. “And how many others? How much knowledge has been lost to us? I say…it’s time to let friendship thrive. Let Joe Dawson record all he has learnt. Learn!”

There was a short silence while the impassioned words died away. Shapiro leaned forward. “Are you through?” he said, not unkindly.

Adam nodded, looking downcast. “Yes.”

Shapiro nodded at the shadows, and without further ado the same security people who had dragged Adam into the jury chamber in the first place grabbed him by the arms and bundled him out. Joe saw the agonized look on Adam’s face as he stared at the book on Shapiro’s desk…too late to grab it now…and then his eyes met Joe’s. They stared at each other, and once again Joe saw that weird flicker of recognition that made his heart stop. Could it be real? Had Adam remembered who he was, what they’d been together? The moment didn’t last long enough for Joe to be sure. The guards moved on and Adam had no choice but to go along with them, trying to look back over his shoulder as he left. He was taken out into the shadows. And the doors clanged shut behind him.

Just as they clanged shut in Joe Dawson’s heart.

***

The Watcher guards deposited Adam Pierson just outside the chalet’s front gates, sniggering softly to themselves as the geeky researcher got to his feet walked to his station wagon. Methos started the car and drove a few kilometers down the winding track that was the Chalet’s only access route, then pulled off and parked behind a little copse of trees. Once parked, he let his head slump forward to rest on the steering wheel while he finally succumbed to the shakes. God, but that had been hard. So hard to walk blindly into a room of people who were essentially enemies, people who would know how to really kill him if they discovered his true identity. And hardest of all to stand and face Joe, to look at him and see his mussed hair and sweaty face as he faced what was quite possibly his last day of life. Joe…

He remembered. The Holy Spring had brought back all nine of his missing years with a clarity that matched her crystalline waters. Methos could now remember each and every moment he and Joe had every spent together—every word, every look, every touch. From the moment he’d first burst through the surface of the Holy Spring, Methos had been in constant motion: driving back to Paris like a man possessed while he badgered Lindsey on his cell phone for the location of the new HQ in Lyon, then breaking every traffic law known to Gallic man as he sped toward it, pausing only to retrieve Dino’s tattered journal from the safety deposit box at his bank. It had been a stupid plan, bringing the journal. Methos had known that even as he drove. But he hadn’t had a lot of time to think. He was going strictly on instinct. He had one objective: get to Joe, and somehow convince the Watchers to drop their charges. He would figure out the rest of the plan as he went along.

Running into MacLeod had been a surprise. It wouldn’t have been, if Methos had been thinking clearly; of course the bloody Scottish boy scout could be counted on to mount a foolhardy rescue. Never mind that his presence all but proved the Watcher’s case. Never mind that, every once in a while, muscle-bound katana wielding was NOT the best solution to a problem. Methos groaned softly. The spring-restored memories of their pivotal fight in the dojo were so clear; god, the child really *had* beaten him, forced his 5,000 year old Quickening to submit. It was a horrifying revelation, one Methos really couldn’t blame his subconscious for wanting to forget. But in a strange kind of way, knowing was a relief. At least now Methos finally understood the true nature of the attraction between them, why he felt such a strong need to run to Duncan whenever he felt threatened or upset. His Quickening had capitulated. It saw Duncan MacLeod as its final resting place, its ultimate refuge, and whenever life got too hard part of him wanted to take advantage of it. There was death, Methos’s greatest fear and his greatest desire, all gift wrapped in one tall, neat, handsome Highland package. No wonder he’d leapt on the first opportunity to get away, falling for Alexa and whisking her off to another continent in an effort to escape the Highlander’s overwhelming power.

No wonder he’d repeatedly betrayed Joe with the need to embrace it.

*Focus, old man. Breath. Get a hold of yourself.* Methos didn’t have time for any of this now. The Council would be handing down a verdict soon, and if all went well, Duncan and Joe would need a ride back to Paris. If not…well, sometimes Highland muscles did have their uses. Methos had no doubt that MacLeod would stage a successful escape, and he and Joe would still need a ride, albeit a slightly faster one. Methos kept the engine idling, determined to be ready. 

He didn’t have long to wait. Less than twenty minutes later MacLeod burst out of the trees, sprinting down the road as if the hounds of hell were after him. He was alone. Methos swore loudly and gunned the car into gear…well, as much as a Volvo station wagon *could* be gunned. He shoved open the back door, shouted “Get in!” as loudly as he could, and when Duncan had thrown himself into the back seat Methos floored the gas petal. “The verdict was guilty,” he said, already knowing the answer.

“Damn right it was.” The Highlander had clearly been through a bad time, his clothing torn, bits of bracken adorning his sweater and hair. He was breathing very heavily. “Nice…people…you work for, Methos,” he panted. “Great retirement plan.”

“Where’s Joe?”

“He decided to stay behind. He seemed to think the verdict was just. Hey, watch it!” Duncan exclaimed as the Volvo swerved under Methos’s suddenly frozen hands. He stared at Duncan in the rearview mirror, unable to keep the horrified expression from his face. “I know, I know, but I couldn’t convince him,” Duncan said. “He refused to go with me willingly. The only option I had was carrying him out bodily…and I couldn’t do that. Not with forty Watcher security types on my tail and only a sword for a weapon.” Duncan turned in his seat, casting an anxious look at the road behind them. “Really, Methos. He wouldn’t budge. I’ll promise I’ll tell you all about it later, but for now…well, for now I suggest we both get the hell out of here.”

“Your wish is my command,” Methos said bitterly. Duncan put his hands on the headrests and swung his way into the passenger seat, narrowly avoiding walloping Methos in the head with the katana’s hilt. “Hey, watch it!” Methos yelped. “If that was pointing the other way, you’d have had my Quickening!”

“Sorry,” Duncan said unrepentantly as he settled into the seat. “Hey, watch the road!” A car was coming toward them, almost filling the narrow road; Methos swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting it, but the other car was forced off into the bracken anyway. Methos chanced a look in his side mirror…the other driver had climbed out and was unhurt enough to be shaking his fist. “Well,” Methos said calmly when the adrenaline rush had died down and they were once again speeding smoothly down the road, even if it was at ridiculously high speed. “Another exciting moment to record in my personal journals. Highlander, what the hell happened to swing the Council? I thought with my compelling speech, they were sure to let Joe off.”

“Methos, there was nothing you are I or even God himself could have said to swing that Council,” Duncan said heavily. “Another Watcher was killed tonight. Shapiro’s only son.”

“David? David Shapiro is dead?” Oh, god. Suddenly Joe’s refusal to run from the judgment made sense. Now that he had his memories back, Methos remembered the Shapiros clearly—not Jack so much, but David had been a good kid, one of Joe’s many young Watcher protégés. He’d spent a year working for Joe at the bar, and had possessed a burgeoning skill for music along with an impressive talent for Watcher surveillance. If Joe thought his breaking cover to MacLeod has somehow resulted in the young man’s death…yes, he might very well see his own death as just punishment. “What happened to him? Was he murdered?”

“I don’t know. Nobody seemed to care much about finding out, not when they already had Joe to blame. Methos, the Council doesn’t want justice, they want revenge. ” Duncan abruptly started to snicker. *Has to be the adrenaline rush* Methos thought. *It can have a strange effect on people, sometimes.* “It was quite a speech, though,” Duncan said, snicker becoming an out right chuckle. “‘They more he got to know him, the more he got to like him. To admire him…’”

“Hey, you try composing great oratory under those conditions,” Methos retorted, stung. “You didn’t happen to grab my journal on the way out, did you?”

Duncan stared at him, adrenalin-induced hilarity forgotten. “What do you mean, *your* journal?”

“Well, not my journal as in I wrote it,” Methos said. “My journal as in a friend of mine wrote it, and I’ve been keeping it safe for the last four hundred years. I’ve gotten quite attached.” He swerved again, this time sending a flock of chickens that had decided the normally-quiet roadway was the ideal place to scratch rising in an indignant squawking cloud. Damn Shapiro and the other Watcher Higher-ups. Why couldn’t they have conducted this drumhead in Paris?

Duncan was still staring. “A friend of yours,” he repeated. “Methos, you don’t mean…that thing wasn’t *genuine*, was it?”

“You think I have the materials and experience to fake a sixteenth century manuscript?” Duncan just looked at him. “Well, all right, maybe I do,” Methos admitted. “But not in the time I had. Yes, MacLeod, sometimes even incurable liars like myself are capable of telling the truth when they have no other options. The journal was genuine. So was the story behind it.”

“Good god,” Duncan exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “What you risked…You really do care about Joe, don’t you? Despite all that crap you fed me earlier.”

Methos’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “Shut up and buckle your seatbelt, MacLeod,” he said grimly. “It’s going to be a rocky ride.”

And it was, right up until they reached the outskirts of the nearest town, where Methos promptly slammed on the brakes. Duncan started to protest, but Methos interrupted him. “Nobody’s following us. That means there’s a good chance no one saw us leave,” he said as he slowed the car even further, pulling into a petrol station with all the respectability of an 80-year-old matron out for an afternoon’s drive. “The Watchers probably still think you’re on foot, and will be busy searching the woods and fields. By the time they get around to interrogating the townsfolk, we’ll be long gone…and I do not want any of the locals to tell them that they saw a Volvo station wagon remarkably similar to the one Adam Pierson drives bolting out of town like a bat out of hell. I am going to refill the gas tank, you are going to use the men’s toilet to wash those smudges of dirt off your face, and then we are going to find a quiet place where we can talk.” His lips tightened. “I want to know exactly what Joe said to you.”

Duncan gave him an odd look…but he did as Methos ordered. They ended up pulled off the side of the road, where Duncan paced while he told Methos the whole story. How he had knocked out the guards and told Joe it was time to go. How Joe had turned him down, and the reasons he gave for doing it. “Damn him,” MacLeod swore as the story wound down. “Setting himself up like that, waiting to die—he’ll go down without a word.”

Methos hunched his shoulders. “It sounds like that’s the way he wants it.”

“Well, what did you expect me to do?” Duncan demanded. “Stay there and die with him?”

Methos looked at him carefully. It was very obvious to that the Highlander wanted nothing more than to rush back into the Watcher headquarters and mount a daring rescue…a plan that suited Methos perfectly. He had no intention of letting Joe die, no matter how much the man himself might disagree. Still, the relationship between Joe and Duncan had always been a complicated one, and Duncan was hurt and upset by Joe’s refusal to leave with him. It was going to take some very careful handling to make him do what he wanted to do anyway. Time to try some reverse psychology. “Well, I wouldn’t,” Methos said staunchly. “MacLeod, you need a vacation. I hear New Zealand’s very nice this time of year.”

Heh. Duncan visibly flinched; there was nothing more guaranteed to offend the MacLeod honor than to suggest he should run away from a fight. But he wasn’t ready to give in just yet. “You did your best, I did my best,” he said, throwing his arms in the air. “If he wants to sit there like a lamb going to slaughter, then let him. There’s nothing else to do. I’m not going back for him.”

“No,” Methos agreed, absolutely deadpan. “It wouldn’t be sensible.”

“No.” Beat. Then: “When the hell have I ever been sensible?”

Methos smiled softly. *Got him.* “Never, where your friends are concerned. It’s part of your charm.” He stood up. “All right. I have a revolver, my sword, and a few small knives, but we’ll need more than that. Fortunately, I know where I can get my hands on some more weapons: rifles, handguns, that sort of thing. It’ll take a few hours—I’ll have to drive to Paris —but I should be back long before dawn. I’ll meet you back here at about three in the morning and we’ll mount our attack.”

Mac looked troubled. “Guns? I don’t want to hurt anyone, Methos.”

“Make up your mind, Highlander,” Methos said, with remarkably little rancor. “The Watchers sure as hell won’t have any scruples about shooting *you*. After all, this is a hostage situation we’ll be walking into, one where all negotiations have failed. If you’re going to insist on playing the white knight on this one, you’re just going to have risk getting your shield a little bloody.” Duncan still looked troubled, but he nodded sadly. “I think I can get my hands on some bullet proof vests, as well,” Methos said. “One could save Joe’s life, and they’ll keep us from being slowed down by an inconvenient death.” He forced himself to give the Highlander a happy little grin. “Anything else you want from Santa, little boy?”

“Can you get your hands on some tear gas?”

“I do believe I can. Just for you.” *And Joe.* “Gas masks, too. We should make sure Joe wears one before we start opening canisters. He’s getting a little old to handle that kind of shock easily.”

“Methos, sometimes you can be one really scary guy to know.”

*You have no idea.* “I try,” Methos answered. “All right then. We’ll meet back here at three AM. Bring the Citroen. Despite the circumstances that seem to crop up whenever you’re around, my station wagon was NOT designed to be a get away vehicle.” He glared at the car unhappily. “Besides. Joe will never live it down if he makes his great escape in a Volvo. All the other outlaws forced to live their lives on the run will tease him about it.”

Duncan caught the sadness behind the sarcasm. “He’ll be living on the run, but at least he’ll be living, Methos,” he pointed out. “You and I can help him, get him a new passport, lend him some money to get him settled in a new life. After all, you’re the one who believes being alive is always preferable to being dead, right?” Methos nodded. Duncan looked at him seriously. “Methos?”

“Yes?”

“If you join me in this attack and someone recognizes you, your cover with the Watchers will be blown. Even if by some miracle they don’t figure out that you’re Immortal when the bullets start flying, Adam Pierson will still be guilty of treason. Are you all right with that?”

Methos hesitated a long time before answering. “Maybe it’s time for me to start a new life too,” he said. “I hear Swaziland is very nice this time of year.” Duncan looked raised a skeptical eyebrow. Methos sighed. “Let me worry about my future, Duncan. I’ve been doing it a longer than you have, after all. Right now all I want you to think about is Joe. Are we agreed? I’ll get the weapons we need, meet you back here at three. And then we’ll storm the chalet together.”

“Three a.m. it is.”

***

Methos drove to Paris as quickly as he could, keeping his torrid emotions as under control as much as possible by repeatedly going over his plans for the next few hours. All right. Keep things simple. Go home, disable the Watcher at the lamppost with as much stealth and efficiency as possible. Go inside, unlock the hall closet. Pry up the loose board in the middle of the closet floor to get the key to the storage locker stocked with the “In Case of Extreme Emergency” supplies. Drive to said locker, load car with weapons, and return to MacLeod as quickly as he could. Methos mentally inventoried what he had in the locker as he drove, found himself regretting that he didn’t have any ski masks; Duncan had been right about his need to preserve Adam Pierson’s identity. If there was a chance he could get through this unidentified, Methos would take it. Unfortunately he’d prepared his stash with thoughts of needing to defend himself from civil unrest, not for stealth missions. Never mind. Find a wooly hat and a pair of scissors and he could improvise…better make one for MacLeod too, just in case. It would be hard talking him into using it…bloody boy scout probably thought it was dishonorable to hide his face…but less visibility was always better. He’d argue that a mask would make it easier to blend into the shadows.

When Methos arrived at his apartment, the Watcher at the lamppost seemed to have evaporated. Presumably, somebody had cancelled the stake out once Adam had shown up at Watcher HQ. Methos let himself in and rubbed his hands together briskly. All right then, he had a plan. Closet first… But he had only made it halfway across the floor before a voice rang out. “That’s far enough, Monsieur,” it said. “Stop where you are, s’il vous plait.”

A light was switched on. Two men were standing in Methos’s apartment, wearing black coats and carrying handguns. Neither made any attempt to hide the tattoos on their wrists. One was blocking the entrance to his kitchen. The second moved quickly behind him, blocking his way back to the street. “Very good, Monsieur,” the first man said, nodding in approval. “Stay right there, please. If you continue to obey instructions, there will be no need to disturb your neighbors with any loud noises, non? Now if you could just raise your arms over your head…oui, like that. Thank you.”

Methos slowly raised his hands to shoulder level. He couldn’t run. There were no exits from the room that one of the Watchers wasn’t covering. His only option was to fight his way out…difficult, with two guns trained on him, but not impossible, especially since he still had his revolver tucked into his pants. “Well. This is a surprise,” he said as he slowly rotated, trying to move to where he could see both men at once. “To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?”

“Oh, I think you know very well why we’re here, Monsieur Pierson,” the first man said. “Joseph Dawson was sentenced to death this afternoon. We are here to…protect…those of his friends who might be persuaded to try something foolish.”

“Like attempting to save him,” sniggered the second.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Methos replied, stalling for time as he planned his attack. Should he shoot the leader first, and hope that the henchman was too slow to get off a shot before he could turn? Or try to come up with some ruse to separate them? “I’m just a researcher. What could I possibly do?”

“A good question, but it is well known that you are a friend of Dawson’s, Monsieur. The traitor has a way of securing quite astonishing loyalty amongst his friends. Monsieur Shapiro is taking no chances.” The first man nodded at the second, who promptly shoved Methos up against his living room wall. “Hey!” Methos protested, but the man’s hands were already patting him down, searching for weapons. There was no way to avoid it; the hands found the revolver tucked into his waistband. Methos could only be glad that he’d left his coat and sword in the car. “Hmmm,” said the first man, corners of his mouth turning up in an oh-so Gallic sneer. “Interesting item for a researcher to be carrying, Monsieur. Were you planning on using this in the near future?”

Methos, nose and chest pressed into the wall, struggled to see the leader past the plaster. “Well, Paris is becoming such a dangerous city,” he said weakly. “A man needs some kind of protection.”

The security guard smirked. “Isn’t it lucky you have us, then? No telling what might have happened to you on your own.” The search continued, revealing the dagger Methos habitually wore in the small of his back, and the small throwing knife he always kept tucked into his right boot top. Flashing a grin, the second man tossed the daggers to the leader, who gave the weapons an appreciative whistle. “Very nice work,” he said. “Let me guess. Collector’s pieces, Monsieur? Too valuable to simply leave lying around the house?”

Methos gave a sickly smile. “Some people carry Swiss Army knives. What can I say? I’ve always tried to be unique.”

“We can see that, Monsieur.” The lead thug nodded again at his partner, who finally allowed Methos to step back from the wall. “Tie him up.”

He was out of time. Desperate, Methos flung out his arm, expertly connecting with the second man’s chin. The man “oofed” and went down just as the first man’s gun went off, causing plaster to explode just over Methos’s ear. The thought that he could have been hit…that this Watcher could have witnessed his healing, could have discovered he was Immortal…added another burst of speed to Methos’s footsteps, and he vaulted over the man’s collapsed body and wrenched opened the door. He took two steps out into the night air…

And ran headlong into six and a half feet of solid muscle. Firm hands closed over Methos’s shoulder as Methos realized that they had outsmarted him. The Watchers had left backup stationed outside. “As I already said, Mr. Shapiro is taking no chances whatsoever,” the leader said humorlessly. “Otto, bring Mr. Pierson inside. And take care. We must not let him even think of trying to escape again.”

***

Not think of escape? Methos thought of little else as he was half carried into his own kitchen, forced into a straight-backed chair and tied into place. Not one, not two, but three more guards came out of the woodwork to oversee this process, and Methos realized that Mr. Shapiro was, indeed, taking no chances. Six men to guard a researcher should have been unheard of…but then, he had just proven that it was necessary, hadn’t he. When Methos had been fully immobilized, the other six men scattered around his kitchen, some sitting, some standing, all keeping an eye and a gun on him. They didn’t budge even when the cell phone in his pocket started to ring, simply letting the little device trill until whoever was calling gave up. They repeated the same behavior when his land line rang—one even went over and slid the volume on the answering machine to zero, so Methos couldn’t tell if the caller had left a message. Methos felt his body go limp. He knew his last chance of escape had been sunk.

His cell phone rang over and over again during the next few hours, as did his land line. Methos assumed it was MacLeod trying to find out where he was, and he slumped deeper into his chair every time the caller gave up, knowing he was truly helpless. By the time the clock read half past four in the morning, Methos’s arms and shoulders were aching from being forced behind his back for so long. His head slumped toward to his chest as he listened to every damn second being ticked off by his kitchen clock, each second bringing a fresh memory into his mind, shiny and new thanks to the magic of the spring. Joe laughing. Joe looking at Methos as if he was the most miraculous thing Joe had ever seen. Joe sitting with his favorite guitar cradled on his lap, playing a private concert meant for two. Methos closed his eyes; it made the memories that much harder to avoid, but he just couldn’t make himself look at the self-satisfied faces of the Watcher guards. The hours crawled away.

Dawn came. The various Watchers had long since broken into Methos’s refrigerator, helping themselves to food and beer. Methos really couldn’t find the energy to object. Something in him had died the moment he looked out his kitchen window and saw the first flush of light outside; for the first time in his life, Methos watched the sky shade from black to grey to brilliant rainbow dawn with no joy whatsoever. When the color had faded and there was nothing but bright yellow sunshine, the lead thug yawned and took out his watch. He read the hour and pocketed the timepiece with a smirk, nodding at the other henchman. “Thank you. Monsieur,” he said as two of the thugs scurried to Methos’s side, quickly undoing his bonds. “You have been most hospitable. We will be leaving you, now.”

The blood flowed back into Methos’s hands with punishing speed, bringing a horrendous sting of pain. “You’re leaving?” he inquired flatly. 

“Monsieur, it is half an hour after dawn. We both know there is no reason to hold you further.” Methos’s entire body shuddered. He knew Joe was dead, had known it from the moment the sun had first poked up over the horizon. But hearing the Watcher guard say it in such a matter-of-fact voice was too much. The man cleared his throat. “You’re now free to go about your business,” he said, not entirely without compassion. “We won’t be following you any more.”

“How very considerate,” Methos murmured. He couldn’t find the strength to do anything but watch as the guards collected their things and cleared out. The one he had clocked during his abortive escape attempt hung back long enough to give Methos a quick, ruthlessly vindictive stomp to the foot before he left, but Methos couldn’t bring himself to care about that, either. He simply collapsed back into the chair that he would have given anything, a few hours ago, to escape from, cradling his head in his hands as his broken toes mended themselves. When the phone rang again, Methos almost didn’t even lift his head; walking the scant five feet to the receiver seemed like way too much effort. But he forced himself to do it anyway. “Pierson,” he said heavily, the name dropping out his mouth like a lead ball. Who knew; perhaps it would be the last time he ever introduced himself this way. With Joe dead, there was no real reason to maintain this identity anymore. He could go to the airport, get on the first flight to Nepal…

“Methos! Thank god!” the caller exclaimed. “Where the hell have you been? I called and called.”

MacLeod. Methos bit back the bitter laugh that was trying to leave his throat, knowing that if he let it out he would rapidly become hysterical. Where had he been? Here. Restrained in relative comfort in his own home while his beloved was being slaughtered. The beloved he hadn’t even known he’d had until yesterday. Had irony ever been so bitter? “I ran into some difficulties, MacLeod,” he said hollowly. “Found myself a little tied up. Couldn’t leave the flat.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s good, I guess. Because I’ll be on your doorstep in about ten minutes. Shit!” Methos heard the sounds of a car horn blaring and tires squealing as MacLeod swerved around some obstacle. “I’ve got Joe with me. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“He…what?” 

Methos heard a dull buzzing in his ears, the sound of an overheated brain that presaged a loss of consciousness. He gripped the kitchen counter tightly. “Joe’s…alive?”

“For the moment.” More swearing and traffic sound effects. “I did what I could to slow the blood loss, but he needs surgery to remove the bullets. You’re going to have to dust off your doctor’s bag.”

“He survived the head wound?” Impossible. Impossible, the Watcher executioner couldn’t have been that sloppy. But impossible as it was, Methos’s mind was already racing ahead…calculating possible entrance and exit wounds, trying to decide what Joe’s chances of recovery were, what the lingering damage would be. It didn’t matter—even if Joe became a vegetable for the rest of his natural life, Methos would care for him. But he had to give the mortal the best fighting chance he could. “MacLeod, I can’t do brain surgery on my kitchen table!” he exclaimed. “You’ll have to take him to the hospital. We’ll use an assumed name…”

“You won’t have to do brain surgery.” MacLeod’s voice was grim. “The Watcher executioner never got a chance to pull the trigger, Methos. Somebody else got there first, mowed down the whole damn lot of them with a machine gun. Joe’s taken three hits to the chest. And before you ask…” Duncan sounded disgusted. “No, it wasn’t me. You were the one who was supposed to show up with the backup weapons, remember?”

Three hits to the chest. Joe was still alive. “Don’t bring him here,” Methos said quickly. “Bring him to Shakespeare and Co. I’ve got a full medical kit in the basement. It will be safer if the Watchers are looking for you…”

“Oh, they’ll be looking for us,” Duncan said grimly. “Two dozen Watchers slaughtered, and no Joe? I think the two of us have just been put on the top of Watcher’s Better Dead list.”

Methos gasped. Two dozen Watcher dead? Mowed down by machine gun fire? “Who could possibly…no, there isn’t time,” he said. “We’ll deal with that once Joe is out of danger. For now…Shakespeare and Co. Five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” MacLeod agreed. “Try to actually show up this time.” And with that, the Highlander hung up.

Out into the sunshine, out into the bright new day. Shapiro’s henchman seemed to have meant it when he said that he was no longer being followed; Methos could spot no tell-tale trench coats, no discreet black sedans. The dispensation had come six hours too late, Methos thought sourly as his long legs broke into a run. But maybe, just maybe, he was being given a second chance. He flew threw the dark streets, sprinting the blocks to Shakespeare and Co, and ended up beating MacLeod to the store. He was there to hold open the back door when the Citroen screeched to a halt in the alley, then he pushed aside the secret panel and turned on lights as MacLeod carried Joe’s unconscious body down the stairs to the secret basement. His old papers were everywhere; Methos swore and swept a priceless collection of ancient roman manuscripts off the table onto the floor, making room for the far more precious mortal life it was now up to him to save. Joe’s face was grey and ashen, the slack rubbery features clearly testifying to the amount of blood he’d lost. The sight made Methos want to weep, to scream, to rage, but he clamped down on the emotions ruthlessly. No. Now was not the time. 

Now was the time to get to work, reaching for skills he hadn’t used in decades. He yanked open the cabinets of emergency supplies and started barking orders at MacLeod, who, after one wasting one precious moment in staring at Methos with incredulous surprise, leapt to obey with a precision that did credit to his fifty-year-old military medic’s training. The two slid into seamless teamwork, cutting off Joe’s bloody clothes and inspecting his injuries. Methos heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that all three of the bullets had somehow managed to miss Joe’s heart and lungs. Two had ricocheted off lower ribs, leaving fragments that would be relatively simple to fish out. The third was messier, having angled up into Joe’s shoulder, but no major organs had been hit. “Doable,” Methos pronounced after a long tense moment of inspection, during which MacLeod had held his breath. “None of the bullets went very deep. I can get them out, stitch him up afterward. But we’ve got to get him stabilized first. He’s going to need a lot of blood.”

MacLeod looked doubtful. “Do you know his blood type?”

Oh, yes. Methos knew Joe’s blood type, along with his birth date, his shoe size, the name of his first girlfriend, and a thousand other details it hurt too much to contemplate. “Yes. He’s O neg.”

“I can’t act as a donor then.”

“You couldn’t under any circumstances, MacLeod. Mortals can’t accept Immortal transfusions. The body rejects it. Even if the blood is the same type according to the microscope.”

Duncan’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“Ask me another time, MacLeod—preferably when I’ve had a lot more sleep and a lot more beer. Suffice it to say that you weren’t the only one Darius roped in to serve in a medical capacity during the last world war. And sometimes war forces you to try things you would never do under normal conditions.” Another moment of startled staring from the Highlander. Methos sighed. “For now, it’s enough to know that neither of us can act as donor. You’ll have to steal it.”

“But—but—”

MacLeod appeared to be doing a dying fish impression. With a flash of annoyance, Methos realized what he was thinking. “Oh, for god’s sake, Highlander,” he snapped. “I don’t expect you to cold cock random strangers on the street and steal a pint or two out of their veins. Not in this day and age. There’s a small immediate care clinic three blocks over, with a fridge full of nice, clean, disease-free blood. They don’t open until ten on weekends, so the place should be deserted. If you’ve paid any attention at all to Amanda over the years, the locks shouldn’t present you with any problems.” MacLeod was still gaping. “Don’t just stand there, go!” Methos barked, and the Highlander nodded and turned, coat swirling as he flew up the stairs. “And bring me some saline, some Pentothal, and a couple more bottles of morphine, too!” Methos hollered after him. He looked down at Joe’s body. “He’s going to need all the help he can get.”

MacLeod returned with the supplies in a remarkably short time, muttering something about leaving several hundred franks on the reception desk to pay for what he’d stolen. Methos wasn’t listening. He was already hard at work, starting the drug that would ensure Joe remained unconscious while he cut into him, upending a bag of blood onto the two chairs he’d stacked to form a makeshift IV stand, and slipping a needle into Joe’s yielding skin. He took out a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope, listening carefully to the subdued-but-mercifully-steady heartbeat before handing the device to MacLeod. “It’s not as good as the monitoring he’d get in a hospital, but it will have to do,” Methos said. “Keep an ear on him, check his blood pressure every few minutes. Let me know if anything changes.”

“I will.”

“Right.” Methos pulled out a scalpel, watching the light play along the small blade. “Like riding a bicycle,” he murmured to himself. Then he flexed his gloved hands over Joe’s inert chest and got to work.

***

Methos would never know for sure just how long he spent working over Joe. It could have been as little as two hours, or it could have been much, much more. As Methos called on his old skills to seek out and remove the bullet fragments, his mind seemed to split and go in other directions. He couldn’t help but remember all the times he had touched this very chest when it was warm and whole, couldn’t help but remember the look of love in Joe’s eyes whenever Young Adam had kissed the skin over Joe’s heart. *“I wish I could look into your face. I want you to remember this, remember me…”* MacLeod, tense and watchful while he monitored Joe’s heartbeat, gave Methos a strange look from time to time, but it was impossible for Methos not to lose himself in the flood of memories. Impossible not to hear those voices from the past.

Focus, Old Man. Breath. Cut a little deeper, find the place where the blood bubbles up, let your searching fingers find…yes, there. Pick up those tweezers and tease that bullet fragment out of Joe’s muscle, hear the little clink as you place the metal in the tray. Don’t think about how horrible his breathing sounds, and don’t think about his chances; don’t even think about how awful it is that the first time you get touch him after recovering your memories, you have to have your arms stained to the elbows with his blood. Think about the past instead. Think about the way it felt when you first saw Joe at Christine’s party after so many years, how sad he looked, how lost. Think about that night when Horton was shot, how it felt to hear your front door open and Joe’s voice come to you through the dark. *“I should be thinking about James and Lynn, but all I can think about is you…the fact that the man I love, the most beautiful man I’ve ever known, has a chance at seeing forever…” “The man you love?” “Adam, I never stopped either…”* Think about how it felt to live six blissful months as Adam Pierson, Newly Born Immortal and Joe’s secret love, before Joe had to leave Paris to start the bar. Then think about the next six months of doing it by distance, when he would call you long-distance at three a.m. just so he could play you music over the phone... 

Think about what it was like before he found out what you really are.

Finally the final fragment was out, the last bit of outraged muscle painstaking pieced back together. Methos lingered over the closing, doing what he could to ensure the scars left behind were as minimal as possible. It was probably stupid, taking so much time over a man who had left his legs behind in Vietnam and bore scars from countless other “interesting incidents” since then. Joe himself would certainly have told him to just hurry up and get the job done. Methos took the extra time anyway. When he finished, MacLeod looked him right in the eye. “That was incredible work,” he said. “You did one hell of a job.”

“Basic field surgery, MacLeod.” Methos pulled off his gloves and dropped them into a bloody heap on the table. He carefully picked his way through the drift of swept-aside manuscript and sank down on an overturned wine crate, utterly exhausted. “Nothing special at all.”

“No.” MacLeod shook his head. “No, Methos. You forget. I served as a medic in both the last world wars…”

“I didn’t forget. That’s why I trusted you to get the blood and other supplies.” Methos raised his weary head to give MacLeod a small smile. “You did a great job packing the wounds, incidentally, slowing the bleeding until you could get him to me. Darius would be impressed.”

MacLeod ignored this. “…and I’ve *seen* ordinary field surgery,” he continued, just as if Methos hadn’t spoken. He picked up Methos’s abandoned gloves and stared at them for a moment, turning them over in his hands before he dropped them into the tray along with the bloody bits of bullets. “I’ve seen my share of hospital surgery, too, and I’m telling you…what you just did was beyond all that. Methos…why on earth did you ever stop practicing medicine?”

“Easy. I like most books a damn sight more than I like most people.”

“Methos!”

“MacLeod.” A gusty sigh. “Listen, there is an answer, all right? But not one I want to go into right now.” Methos reached up to rub his face. It felt like his very nose was ready to drop off out of pure exhaustion. “Ask me another time. In the future. The far distant future, when I’ve had a lot more sleep, and a hell of a lot more…”

“A hell of a lot more beer. Yeah, okay. I guess that’s fair.” MacLeod slowly gathered up the rest of the surgical implements. A shadow crossed his face as he looked down at Joe. “You really do care about him, don’t you.”

“Says Mister Pot to Mister Kettle,” Methos yawned. “I wasn’t the one who pulled him out of a pile of Watcher bodies, now was I?”

“No. You weren’t. And why was that, Methos? Where were you?”

Methos didn’t answer. It was still too fresh—the horror of sitting in his kitchen, knowing that Joe was about to die and there was nothing he could do. Perhaps Duncan would be sympathetic, or perhaps he would feel compelled to analyze Methos’s every move, point out exactly where he’d gone wrong. It didn’t really matter. Those hours were too personal, too painful, to ever be shared. “I don’t understand you,” MacLeod said, when it became clear Methos was never going to speak. “First you say you want nothing to do with rescuing him, then I find you prowling around the New Headquarters with a sword. Next you offer to supply tear gas and machine guns for a rescue mission, and then you don’t show up. You would have let Joe be executed, but when he managed to survive anyway you perform surgery on him as carefully and thoughtfully as if…as if he was your son, or your best friend. And now I have no doubt that you’ll be here every minute, hovering over him like some demented mother hen, until he recovers consciousness…at which point you’ll probably say something really obnoxious about how much trouble he’s been, and disappear to Bora Bora for ten years. Am I right?”

“I won’t go anywhere until I’m sure the wounds are healing well and that there’s no infection,” Methos said tiredly. “After that…” After that? Who knew? Now that he remembered who Joe was, part of him yearned to throw himself at the musician’s shoes and beg to start over. He couldn’t imagine the pain Joe had gone through, first through being forgotten, then by watching silently as Methos went off with first Alexa and then…MacLeod. Bitter bile rose in Methos’s throat as he thought about the reasons for that, and he tried desperately to push those reasons from his mind. He had to concentrate on Joe now, think about what their future should or shouldn’t hold. *At the very least* he thought to himself, *I have to tell him I remember, and try to explain …* But even as Methos pictured the scene in his mind, something held him back. 

Joe hadn’t told him. All those weeks in Seacouver before Methos had met Alexa, all the lonely months since her death…the most it would have taken was a handful of simple sentences, and Methos would have known the truth. He might not have believed it at first, but Joe hadn’t even tried. He’d looked at Methos oddly a few times, but hadn’t even begun to tell him about their past. Why?

MacLeod, meanwhile, had pulled up a crate of his own and was sitting with his arms crossed, not letting Methos out of his sight. “And after that?” he demanded. “After you see to it that he’s not going to die in the immediate future? What then?”

“Then…I just don’t know, MacLeod.” Methos didn’t. Joe hadn’t told him the truth…which made Methos suspect that Joe hadn’t wanted to. Had wanted out of their weird, admittedly challenging relationship enough to let Methos continue his life—marry another woman, for god’s sake!—without saying a word to stop him. Why? Methos clearly recalled a certain morning when he had sliced his fingers cutting strawberries; the look he’d seen on Joe’s face then still cut him to the heart. How much worse had it been for Joe to actually witness Methos behead someone? See him suffer through the Quickening and its aftermath? The time immediately following Kristin’s beheading was still a jumble to Methos, a Quickening-scrambled mish-mash not even the Holy Spring had been able to straighten out. But he could just vaguely remember hearing Joe’s voice, and looking up from Kristin’s lawn to see Joe’s look of horror. Had that been the final straw, then? Had seeing that convinced Joe once and for all that what they had could never work? “I don’t know,” Methos repeated dully. “I just don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” MacLeod, obviously angry, got up and started to pace over the cellar floor. “Well, that’s one mighty fine answer, Methos. You don’t know.”

“It’s an honest one.” Methos looked up to see a Highlander that was getting increasingly agitated by the minute. “Why the hell should you care, anyway? What’s between Joe and me is between Joe and me. Our…” he sought for a word. “friendship is none of your business, MacLeod.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Duncan replied bitingly. “Maybe it’s stupid for me to even try to understand.” He stopped in mid pace and swung to face Methos, arms so tightly crossed in anger that his hands were completely wedged underneath his armpits. “It’s just that in the time I’ve known you, apart from Alexa, Joe seems to be the only person in your life that you can’t just drop at a moment’s notice. The one thing in your life that you can’t be perfectly happy living without.”

“So?” Methos was rapidly getting fed up. “To borrow a rather ungainly piece of American slang, what’s it to you?”

“Good question,” Duncan said. “Very good question. What’s it to me, how you treat your friends?” He whirled back around and resumed his pacing, this time carefully staring at the ceiling and the walls—anywhere but Methos’s face. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you lately, that’s all. Wondering where I fit in. Maybe it’s stupid for me to try to guess from your actions toward Joe what your actions toward *me* might be if I was in trouble…but I keep trying. After all, I don’t have any other examples to go by, do I?”

“And what has all this study told you?”

“That I can’t count on you.” Duncan took a look at Methos’s startled face, and something that was almost 100% disgust filled his eyes. “Never mind. I should have known better than to try to have this conversation,” he said. “I need some air.”

He starting going up the steps. Methos endured another heartbeat of incredulous shock, and then his own anger became a volcano. He crossed the floor in two steps and made a snatch for the back of the Highlander’s coat, pulling him towards him with a savage jerk. MacLeod “oofed” and stumbled back, but didn’t lose his footing. Methos wouldn’t let him. Outrage and adrenaline had taken over, giving his tired muscles a strength they should not have had without several hours of sleep. He hauled MacLeod bodily off the stairs and flung him up against the wall, causing a wine rack to rattle dangerously. “You arrogant whelp,” he hissed into the Scot’s ear. “No, you don’t need air. What you *need* is a lesson in manners.” His lips curled back into a threatening snarl. “And unfortunately enough for you, you have found your teacher.”

“A teacher? You?” MacLeod sneered. “The World’s Rudest Man is going to teach *me* manners?”

“Oh, yes.” Methos forced his hand into the Highlander’s throat, pinning him to the wall. He ground hard with the palm of his hand over MacLeod’s Adam’s apple, positively enjoying the sight of the Highlander gasping for air. “How dare you,” he hissed. “How dare you question my loyalty to Joe. After where I was last night…after the hells I’ve gone through…”

MacLeod’s face was red, and he was coughing desperately in an attempt to get some air. Nevertheless, he managed a completely maddening smile. “Yes, Methos, do enlighten me,” he gasped out. “Just where were you?”

“That’s none of your damned business!” With a great effort, Methos forced his hand to relax. MacLeod slumped back against the wall, and this time it was Methos’s turn to pace angrily around the room. “This isn’t about me and Joe, anyway,” Methos said in a low voice. “It’s about you and me. Isn’t it.”

“That’s right,” MacLeod nodded. “Just us. Nobody else.” He wheezed heavily. “It’s about me and whether or not I can count on you, when the chips are down. You’ve proven to me that I can’t.”

“Damn you!” Methos hollered, smashing his fist into the wine cabinet. Inside, several priceless bottles rattled and shook. Joe, sleeping on the table, gave a sudden snort of breath. Both Immortals instantly turned toward him, concerned, until he settled back down. “Damn you,” Methos repeated more quietly. “You have no right to even ask that question, after everything I’ve done for you. I’ve looked out for you, I’ve gotten involved in the doings of your Immortal friends, I’ve risked my cover with the Watchers to get you information out of the Chronicles. For god’s sake, I even *gave up two weeks of life with Alexa* to bring you your family sword. To save your ungrateful ass from the Dark Quickening…”

“Yes,” MacLeod panted. He had slid down the wall and was now sitting on the floor, knees bent into his chest as he worked to recover his breath. “Yes, Methos, you did, and I’ve always wondered why. Because you’ve never said one word to explain. Never said one word that indicated it was done out of love, or friendship, or anything else that I can understand. When I try to ask you directly I get evasions, jokes, or downright insults when you can’t think of anything more entertaining. Never the truth. So I can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but think that you’re doing it for your own sick, game-playing motives, and that the moment those motives change so will your actions.” Duncan spread his hands. “I don’t understand you, Methos. And what I don’t understand, I can’t count on.”

Silence. Bitter, aching silence, while a speechless Methos glared at the Highlander. First came pain: the old, old pain of not being understood even when he’d done everything he could to make himself clear, the knowledge that his real self was so out of step with the current world that there were simply no words to bridge the gap. Nobody understood him…not this Immortal child, and not Joe, who had tried, but had ultimately been defeated. *Is that why you couldn’t tell me the truth, Joe? Did you finally realize just how alien I am, and take your chance to run?* The silence stretched on for an endless time, Methos reeling from the pain that felt like it would split his chest in two…and then the anger flared again. It wasn’t explosive, not this time, but it was cold and deadly. “You’re a fine one to talk about counting on people,” he said softly, barely a whisper above the volume of Joe’s labored breath. “Didn’t it once occur to you, when I showed up after Alexa’s death, that I might have appreciated knowing we’d had sex in the past before you tumbled me into your bed? Or did you enjoying *playing games* with my mind so much these last few months that you were content to let me live out my days without telling me?”

***

It was a stupid thing to say. Methos knew that, but his anger had a voice of its own…that impossible to control, instinctive voice of the enraged ape that has been getting men into trouble since time began. Methos could, at least, take some savage solace in MacLeod’s reaction: the Highlander was clearly floored. “I—I—“ Duncan began, then stopped. His face ghastly pale. “I—you know. You know.”

“Bloody right I know!” Methos exploded. He jumped up and began once again to pace frantically across the basement, so full of rage and pain he had to do something, anything, to keep from losing control. In the corner, Duncan’s pale face went even paler. “Who told you?”

“Nobody told me, Highlander. I didn’t even have to hack into my journals to discover the sordid truth, although I suppose I could do that now. Will, when I have the chance.” The memory of the password to his protected files had come back along with everything else—he’d used Joe’s military serial number. “No. I’m afraid the events in question are once again indelibly seared in here.” Methos tapped his forehead angrily.

“Your amnesia? It’s gone?” Methos nodded. “But how?”

“Oh, figure it out, MacLeod,” Methos snapped. “The ‘how’ shouldn’t be too much of a puzzle. It’s very logical after all. What would you have done if you were me?” MacLeod just shook his head. “I-went-to-the-Spring,” Methos enunciated clearly, biting sarcasm in every syllable. “It’s good for more than just Dark Quickenings, you know. The Lady there can effect just about any kind of healing, if you need it badly enough. Including mending a traumatized mind.”

MacLeod looked horrified. “Traumatized?”

“Do you have better word?”

“No…but…” For a moment, Macleod pressed a hand to his chest as if in pain. Then he made a visible effort to regroup. “When did you go, Methos? How long have you known?”

“Since yesterday morning.”

“You drove to the Spring yesterday morning? That’s why I couldn’t reach you while I was hunting for Joe?” Methos nodded tightly. “Oh my god,” MacLeod said. “Methos, why now? All this time in Paris, you could have gone at any time! For gods sake, why *now*?”

“Warren Cochrane,” Methos said bitterly. “You were right, you know. Immortals don’t get amnesia from physical traumas, not even from Quickenings. I knew that; I’d never lost more than a couple of hours from taking a head before, and I’ve absorbed some Quickenings that…well, let’s just say they compare to Kristin’s the same way a nuclear explosion compares to a firecracker. It wasn’t the Quickening that took those nine years, Highlander. It was an emotional shock. Like Cochran’s.” He stopped his pacing and turned to face Duncan, letting all the pain he felt show in his eyes and voice. “Damn it, Duncan. Why couldn’t you have told me you’d beaten me in a Challenge? Why couldn’t you just have told me the truth?”

There was a long silence from the Scottish Warrior. Then he mumbled something inaudible. “What was that?” Methos snapped.

Duncan coughed. “I said, it didn’t seem…important.”

“Not important,” Methos repeated in disbelief. “Not important? For Christ’s sake, MacLeod! How much more important could anything get?” There was another unintelligible mumble from the Highlander. “I trusted you,” Methos said, letting his voice drop low. “When I woke up on your couch after losing my memory…do you have any idea how frightening that was, Highlander? I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve decided that time may have been the most vulnerable I’ve been in more than two thousand years. Not knowing who I was, not even knowing where I lived or what name I was using…it was terrifying.” Duncan nodded his head awkwardly, a pained confirmation. “I counted on you,” Methos said. “Trusted you, quite literally, to tell me who I was. And I’ve spent the last eight months thanking whichever deity it was who hadn’t gotten sick of me yet that it was *your* couch I woke up on, because it seemed to me there was no other Immortal in this world I could have trusted not to take advantage of the situation. Only to find that you left out something so, so….” He groped for the words, gave up. “*How the hell could you think it wasn’t important?*”

“I didn’t want you to run. Okay? It’s that simple. I just didn’t want you to leave,” Duncan suddenly spat. Methos stared at him. Duncan raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “All right, you were right,” he said. “I did know it was important. I just…if you remember everything, you must remember how complicated it all got right before you took Kristin’s head. Everything seemed to happen at once—first our fight in the dojo, then the sex, then Kristin’s death. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. And yes, I was angry too, angry that you could have gone ahead and killed a woman I used to love when we…when I thought...” Duncan took a deep breath, steadied himself. “And then there you were with your memory gone, the whole damn episode erased. It all seemed so simple, somehow. So neat. A chance to start over. Can you blame me for wanting the whole thing to go away? Especially when I knew that if I told you the truth, you’d be on the next plane to Timbuktu? I know how you feel about your survival. I know what you would have done.”

“Oh, god.” Methos let his head slump forward. Adrenaline was a real bitch when she finally decided to abandon you. “I wouldn’t have gone to Timbuktu,” he said tiredly. “Not for good, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t have?”

“No. At the very most I would have disappeared for a few months, taken some time to think. I would have come back in the end.”

“Oh, yes?” Duncan’s eyes were strangely brilliant. “And why would you have done that, Methos?”

“You’ve never lost a Challenge, have you? Really lost, I mean. And still lived to tell the tale.” Duncan shook his head slowly. “No,” Methos said sadly. “I didn’t think so. Very few Immortals have. It’s not suppose to be possible to surrender that much and still keep your head attached. It’s not the way things are meant to be.” He sighed. “You should have killed me that day in the dojo, Highlander.”

Duncan was aghast. “You think I should have taken your head? You would rather be dead?”

“Never,” Methos answered quietly. “But it would have been…easier. We’re not built to lose and live, MacLeod. It sets up…complications.” Duncan still looked puzzled. Methos threw up his hands. “Don’t you get it, Highlander?” he exclaimed. “You won. You beat me. That means *you own me*, as far as the Game’s concerned. My Quickening has acknowledged you as its rightful master. Every time I get near you, all it wants to do is make me fall to my knees and have you finish the job. Become part of you. Let go…”

He hadn’t realized that he’d started breathing heavily until he stopped talking, hands curling helplessly into fists with the strength of his emotion. “So,” Duncan said slowly. “Your Quickening wants me to kill you.” Methos nodded. “But you are not just your Quickening,” Duncan continued softly, almost crooning. “So what about the rest of you, Methos? What does the rest of you want?”

“Easy. To live.” Duncan raised an eyebrow. “No, all right, that’s not entirely true. Part of me also wants to die…I’m so tired, MacLeod. You have no idea. Can never have any idea.” Methos shook his head wearily. “It’s constant push-pull, Duncan. The Quickening and the other parts of me that are old and weary just want this life to end. Those parts need to be near you, while the parts that want to live want to get as far from you as they can get. So you see…if you’d told me the truth, if I’d known consciously what my subconscious has known this whole time, I might very well have run away. But not for long.” Methos’s voice assumed a tone of deep despair. “My Quickening wouldn’t let me stay away.”

“I see.” Duncan’s voice was very level, very controlled. Too controlled. “So that’s it, then,” Duncan said. “The reasons I’ve been looking for. Why you go, why you come back. It all makes sense, now. I’m half instinctive owner, half convenient escape plan. Nothing more.” He got to his feet and slipped on his overcoat, pulling the fabric into place with a definite air of finality. “I’m glad we had this little talk, Methos. It explains so much. Now, I really do need some air.”

“Duncan…”

“Stop right there.” The Highlander whirled around, and Methos was startled to see that this time he held the katana, glimmering lethally in the dim light. It was a sight only slightly less dangerous than the Highlander’s eyes. “I don’t need any more ‘lessons’ today, Methos. And I think you will find I respond very badly if you try to press the point.” He jerked his chin at the still-unconscious Joe Dawson. “Tend to Joe. I’ll be back to relieve you in an hour. By then you’ll need some sleep.” Duncan stomped up the stairs, groping for the latch that released the secret panel at the top. A moment later, he was gone.

Methos sank back down onto his crate, wondering if he’d just signed his own death sentence.

***

For Joe Dawson, consciousness had become a highly unpredictable lover, flitting back and forth with no regard to what he desired. For the most part, this was a good thing. The pain in his chest and his right arm was excruciating, like liquid fire. Joe knew he was hurt bad. Maybe consciousness knew what she was doing, protecting him from all that. Maybe it was best that the blackness embraced him…

Still, there small moments of lucidity, tiny islands of clarity Joe wished he could have held onto. MacLeod’s voice, shrill and worried and seeming to come from a long way away, informing Joe that he was NOT going to die just yet, no matter what Joe’s personal opinions on the subject might be. Later, there was the feeling of a damp cloth gently sponging off his forehead, and a strong hand weaving its fingers through Joe’s, sending a palpable feeling of love and strength flowing up Joe’s arm and into his aching chest. And there was a strange melody, sung in a language Joe had no way of recognizing, but which he somehow knew was a lullaby anyway. It flowed around him, caressing, and he knew the song included a fervent entreaty to the gods to make his dreams be sweet.

It worked.

It all culminated in Joe opening his eyes—and god, wasn’t that a colossal effort, worse than trying to roll a full keg of beer up the bar’s loading ramp on his own—to see a face hovering over him. The face was worried and drawn with lack of sleep. Nonetheless, it was a sight straight out of Joe’s best dreams. Joe let out a sigh of pure contentment. “Adam?”

There was a pause. “Not Adam,” the face corrected gently. “Methos.”

“Methos.” Joe repeated the name with a deep feeling of disappointment. He tried very hard to make his grainy eyes focus on Methos’s face, searching for the recognition he’d seen at the trial, the hints that the Adam he’d loved still knew him. Nothing. All he met was masks. “Methos,” he said again, and tried to sit up. It was a big mistake. Pain flared along the entire left side of Joe’s chest, making it very difficult to speak. “Where… the hell… are we?”

“Shakespeare and Co.”

“Shakespeare and Co?” Joe struggled to peer past Methos’s shoulder. For the first time he noticed the rough, dusty, spider-web encrusted wooden ceiling overhead, the rickety old bedstead in which he was lying, and the abundant presence of loose manuscript pages hanging about. “No way,” he said. “I know what Shakespeare and Co. looks like. There should be more books…ones that haven’t mysteriously exploded, I mean. And a lot fewer cobwebs.”

“We’re in the basement.”

“Basement? What basement?”

“The one hidden behind the secret panel in Don’s office.”

“Shakespeare and Co. has a secret basement?” Joe didn’t know whether to be amazed or hurt. “And neither you nor Don ever told me about it?”

“Oh, it was a special researcher’s secret,” Methos said easily. “You had to lose two pints of blood via paper cut and swear never to reveal the mysteries of the Dewey Decimal System to an outsider before Don would let you in on it.” Joe snorted, and regretted it immediately. Methos noticed. “Tell me how you’re feeling, Joe.”

“I feel…” Joe tried to find words for it, the incredible pain that intensified with every breath. “I feel like I’ve been shot.” He looked down to see the wreath of bandages garlanding his chest. “You sewed me back together?”

“Yes. With MacLeod’s help.”

“How bad is it?”

“You took three bullets in all. Two to the chest, one to the shoulder. You were lucky, Joe. None of the fragments went deep enough to hit any of your organs, or we wouldn’t be here now.” Methos looked unhappy. “But there’s a lot of muscle damage.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

Joe closed his eyes. “Always.”

“Then you need to know that you’re going to be in pain for quite a while,” Methos said bluntly. “And you’re going to need a lot of intensive physical therapy before you recover. It will be six months at least, possibly much more, before you can do any kind of heavy lifting or pushing. Holding a guitar is going to be very difficult, if not downright impossible.” Methos looked sad, then shook the emotion away. “But you *will* recover, Joe. Hold onto that.”

Joe thought about it. “So,” he said slowly. “On the whole, what you’re telling me is that it’s much better than the alternative, then.”

“Yes.” A faint smile. “Leave it to our Joe Dawson to escape being executed through being shot.”

“Yeah. Leave it to me.” Joe’s voice was gruff. Suddenly it all came flooding back to him. The hours of sleepless waiting. Watching the sky lighten through the nursery windows, knowing it was the last sunrise he’d ever see. Standing in the Watcher courtyard, watching Jack scurry away like something was dirty. Closing his eyes and crossing himself. Then…screams. The sound of machine gun fire so well known to any Vietnam vet, and…pain. Incredible pain, and blackness rising, the only sound breaking the void being MacLeod anxiously commanding him to hang on. “Methos, what the hell happened? Who shot us? I couldn’t see…”

“That, my friend, is the million dollar question,” Methos said. “We were hoping you could tell us.” Joe shook his head. Methos sighed. “All MacLeod and I know is that someone decided to take out the entire upper Watcher hierarchy in one go. Everyone in that courtyard was shot.”

“Jesus Christ.” Methos nodded in solemn agreement and turned his back, picking a syringe up off the table and scrutinizing the contents with a doctor’s expert eye. It was strange beyond strange to see Methos wearing that uniquely medical frown, projecting that professional doctor’s air. “Well, at least now they know it wasn’t MacLeod who’s been killing Watchers,” Joe said, trying to ignore the feeling of displacement he felt at seeing yet another one of Methos’s seemingly endless supply of new personalities. “One of the other victims must have seen the gunman, right? Hell of a way to find out the truth, but if it clears MacLeod and me…”

“Joe.” Methos turned around, agony in his eyes. “Joe, there *are* no other victims who can identify the gunman.”

Joe felt his good hand curl in the rough wool blanket that covered him, unconsciously bracing himself for what he was about to be told. He knew, deep in his heart, that it wasn’t going to be good. “None at all?” he repeated. “But…”

“No. Nobody else lived to tell the tale, Joe. You were the only survivor.”

A fierce buzzing sound rose up in Joe’s ears as the room tilted underneath him. “No,” he whispered. “No. That’s not possible.” Mentally he counted off the people who had been present, seeing their faces, remembering their names. Joe couldn’t find it in his heart to grieve for Tarvise, but the others? Some of them were people Joe had worked with for decades, people he knew and respected, even if fear had temporarily blinded them to justice. All dead? It couldn’t, couldn’t be. 

Joe was dimly aware of Methos telling him that it got worse. Because there were no witnesses and Joe’s body hadn’t been found with the others, he and MacLeod were now the number one suspects for the crime, sentenced to be shot and/or beheaded on sight. Which was why Joe was here in the basement of Shakespeare and Co, rather than in the hospital where he belonged…but Joe had stopped listening. The pain in his chest rose to epic proportions. Methos stopped in mid sentence, clearly alarmed, and the next thing Joe knew the Immortal was standing at his side, quickly injecting the contents of the syringe. “Adam,” Joe whispered, hurting too much to care about the right names and just who it was that was tending him. “Hurts…”

“Shhh. Shhh, I know. It’s all right. The morphine will kick in soon.”

It was true. Joe could feel a warm languor starting to creep through his body, soothing away some of the fire in his chest. The slim body bent over him. Joe would never be a hundred percent sure, since the drugs along with the pain and shock were doing a pretty good job of hijacking his senses, but he thought Methos pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead as Joe faded away. “Sleep now,” the old Immortal said. “Let yourself forget. Just for a while.”

Joe had no choice but to obey. He slept.

***

*“Adam?”

*“Yes, Joe?”

*“There’s something I have to tell you. Something I should have told you a long time ago. About the years that you don’t remember.”

*“Uh-oh. That sounds serious. This wouldn’t be a deep dark secret, now would it?”

*“Kinda.”

*“I already know that you got me to sing Monkee’s songs, Joe. As well as drink the occasional domestic beer. What could be deeper or darker than that?”

*“Not dark. Just deep.” A deep breath. “We were lovers.”

*A blink. “Yes, Joe, I know. More than a decade ago, when I came to help you set up Juniper Street. We talked about it right after I lost my memory, remember? It happened, we moved on…”

*“No. No, I didn’t move on. Neither did you.” Joe laughed shallowly. “I admit it looked that way for a long time—I was a complete ass, avoided you like the plague. But then we met up again, and we both knew. Adam, when you lost your memory, we’d been together for more than two years. The whole reason you were in Seacouver that week in the first place was to help me celebrate my birthday. Don’t you remember? Even just a little bit?”

*Silence. Then, very distantly: “Maybe I do. Not consciously but maybe part of me always knew…Joe, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

*“Because I was an idiot. Because we had a stupid argument right before it happened, and then MacLeod said something that made me think the two of you were in love, that you’d dropped me in favor of him. Because by the time I knew that wasn’t true, there was Alexa to consider…and because…because…” Pause. “Because it has always seemed too good to be true that you really loved me, that you really wanted to be part of my life. When you forgot me, some part of me thought you had done it on purpose. It was proof that what I’d always suspected was true. You’re too good for me.”

*“Oh, Joe.” They were soft words, softly spoken. Joe felt a gentle touch on the face. “How could you think that, when the exact opposite is true? You’re the one who is much too good for me.”

*“You remember, then?”

*“No. But I believe you. How can I not believe you? A part of me has been missing every since I lost my memory. And it makes sense. That time we spent working on the bookstore was special, Joe. I fell hard for you then. I never quite got over it.” There were more gentle touches, this time ever so slightly sensual in addition to being comforting. “I never stopped wanting you, either.”

*Joe’s heart beat faster. He laughed shakily, gesturing at his weak and battered body, the gunshot wounds wreathed in bloody gauze, the missing legs, the pale and pasty skin. “Even like this?”

*“Even like this.” Adam’s voice dropped into the low, darkly sensual tones Joe remembered from a thousand heart-stopping encounters. “What can I do for you, Joe? What do you need?”

*“I don’t know. I’m not up to much…oh god.” Adam’s hand brushed over his chest, unerringly finding the one square inch of Joe’s skin it didn’t hurt to touch. “Undress for me. I need to see you. You have no idea how much I’ve missed looking at you.”

*Hint of tease. “Just looking?”

*No.” Joe shook his head solemnly. “I miss the touching, too. Touching, smelling, hearing, tasting…anyway it’s possible to miss you, I’ve missed you. But right now all I really want to do is look.” Joe swallowed, trying hard not to let desperation get the better of him. “Please, just let me see you. Let me know you forgive me. Let me know that this is real.”

*And there were no more words, no more sounds at all except for the gentle rustle of clothing being removed, a sweatshirt being pulled over head and discarded, jeans slowly being unbuttoned and dropped to the floor. Joe looked, drinking in his fill of the beautiful body being displayed for him. And believed…*

***

Methos awoke with a jerk, his arousal plainly evident in the bulge of his jeans. The basement was quiet, the soft creaks and groans of the old foundation blending softly with the sound of Joe’s breath. The injured Watcher was clearly still asleep. For a second Methos could only stare blankly at him, wondering why the vivid erotic dream he’d just woken up from had taken place entirely from Joe’s point of view. It made no sense at all…unless you took into account how desperate his subconscious was for Joe to feel and say those very things. To offer forgiveness without Methos needing to apologize. To offer love without Methos needing to tell the truth. “God, I am so messed up,” Methos murmured, watching Joe’s chest rise and fall in labored-half hitches, the pain of his wounds clearly reaching him even in his dreams. “I need a vacation, then about ten years of intensive mental therapy. Sean, I miss you ...”

Methos stretched, yawned, and forced his still-tired eyes to focus on his watch. 5:30 am. He’d had exactly two hours of sleep, which was actually pretty damn good. Between the need to administer Joe’s pain medications and his own restless, wandering mind, Methos hadn’t gotten that much unbroken sleep for days. In half an hour it would be time for Joe’s next dose, and then at 6:30 the Highlander would arrive to take care of Joe for the day—giving Methos just enough time to drop by his flat, shower, change clothes and otherwise beat his body into some mockery of presentability before driving to work. It was an exhausting schedule, one which got harder to maintain every day. And the lack of sleep was only one tenth of the reason why.

Methos was beginning to feel very much like man standing with one foot on the decks of two different boats, boats that were rapidly trying to go in different directions. The Watchers and their needs were in one boat, his Immortality and loyalty to his own kind in the other. And wasn’t Methos just lucky that he had a physical personification of the later point of view waiting for him at Shakespeare and Co. every night, a personification that was ready, willing, and able to call his attention to the impossibility of staying balanced for much longer? “I can’t believe you’re still working for them!” MacLeod had yelled at him that very evening…well, yesterday evening, now. “After all they’ve done…all they’re trying to do…”

Methos had been upstairs in the bookstore at the time, gathering fresh reading material for Joe. He’d made angry shushing noises, mindful of the patient trying to rest only a floor away. MacLeod had quieted, but his eyes had continued to glare. “We’ve had this conversation before, MacLeod,” Methos had answered quietly. “I can’t quit my job. We need somebody inside the Watchers if we’re going to keep ahead of their plans for you and Joe. You’re just lucky that Shapiro believes I’m still loyal.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” MacLeod had snapped back. “And just what did you do to prove your loyalty, Methos? I sure as hell would like to know.”

Methos had refused to answer that. In truth, securing Shapiro’s trust hadn’t been that hard. The fact that Adam Pierson had been under guard the morning of Joe’s botched execution proved that he hadn’t been involved in the shootings. All Methos had had to do was see Shapiro privately, put on Young Adam’s best horrified-scholar face, and stammer that he might once have believed in Joe Dawson’s honor, but after hearing what that…that traitor!... had done, the wool could no longer remain over his eyes. Shapiro had bought it hook, line, and sinker, clapping Adam on the back and making him the new Watcher poster boy for recovered loyalty. But Methos would be damned if he told MacLeod any of this. He knew exactly what the Scot’s response to his deceptions would be. “Yeah, I thought that would be the answer I got,” MacLeod had said when Methos’s silence had become too lengthy to ignore. “How can you do it, Methos? How can you leave here every morning and go to work as usual after watching Joe toss and turn all night? When you know that your coworkers were the ones who wanted to kill him in the first place?”

“It’s hardly ‘work as usual’, MacLeod,” Methos had retorted angrily. “And all I can say is that you should be counting your lucky stars that I’m there. How else would you have known about the stakeout at the barge? Or the Watcher at Maurice’s?”

“Oh, you’ve been a very big help, Methos,” MacLeod had snapped back. “Providing essential information…I can’t argue with you. All I’m saying is that it’s a bit convenient the way you always manage to keep all your options open. When this is over, you’ll still have your cozy little nest in the Watchers, not so much as a feather disturbed. Haven’t you ever marveled at your ability to get through life without having to commit to anything? Without ever having to choose sides?”

“That’s not fair!”

“Isn’t it?” MacLeod’s voice had changed subtly then, as had his posture. He’d met Methos with the full power of those damnably fine chocolate eyes, seductive and impossible to evade. At the same time Methos had felt the tingle of the other Immortal’s Quickening grow subtly stronger, prickling over his skin like an electric caress. “I could order you not to go, you know.”

Both of them had known it was true. MacLeod really could order Methos to quit his job, and Methos would be forced to obey…unless Methos decided to take the only other option still left to him. And under any other circumstances, Methos would have surrendered before it came to that…but this time, he couldn’t. Not when Joe’s safety was at stake. “Try it, MacLeod,” he’d said, in a quiet but very deadly tone. “Just go ahead and try it. You will find yourself facing one hell of a Challenge if you do…and this time your little friend Richie won’t be here to prevent us from reaching the moment of truth. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find it doesn’t end the same way. Or maybe you’ll find yourself having to explain to Joe why you had to dig him out of the rubble after you took his doctor’s head. Do you really want to find out?” There had been a short silence, during which MacLeod had given one small, unhappy shake of his head. “I didn’t think so,” Methos had said, much more calmly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take these books downstairs.”

“Methos…”

“Just shut up, MacLeod. I already know exactly what you think of me and my choices. You don’t have to say anything more.” Methos had gathered up the books and headed for the stairs. MacLeod, strangely speechless, had gathered up his coat. “And MacLeod?” Methos had called, pausing on the stairway as he watched the Highlander pick his way out through the cluttered shop. “Something for you to muse upon while you’re polishing your katana tonight. Just because you own my Quickening, it doesn’t mean you own my life.”

Methos had heard a muttered reply. It had sounded like: “I know. That’s the whole fucking problem!” before the door slammed shut with enough forced to rattle the walls. Which was disturbing enough. But even more disturbing was the fact that, when Methos made his way downstairs, Joe wasn’t safely asleep as Methos had assumed. The bandaged Watcher was sitting up in bed, rubbing at his face, and despite the large amounts of painkillers Methos was still doping him with his eyes were disturbingly clear. “Well. That was certainly…noisy,” Joe had said. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Not especially, no.” Methos had waited for the third degree to start, but Joe just nodded and relaxed back onto his pillows. Either he hadn’t heard the exact words they’d yelled at each other or he’d still been too asleep to understand. Methos had reached for cheerfulness and, while he didn’t exactly find it, he found a close enough facsimile to fool…well, a small child perhaps. Or an exceptionally dimwitted dog. Never mind. It was the effort that counted, or so Methos had told himself as he pasted on a smile and set his burden of books down on the foot of Joe’s bed. “I couldn’t find any more Dorothy L. Sayers,” he’d said. “But Don had a cache of Agatha Christie tucked in the bookshelf near his desk.” He’d held up a pile of soft covers for Joe to see, then put them on the bedside table within easy reach of Joe’s good arm. “And I brought you some Twain as well. You know, just in case the mysteries are starting to wear a bit thin.”

Joe had reached for the battered Children’s Classics Library edition of Tom Sawyer, wincing when his wounds complained about the movement. Methos had expected Joe to swear at the pain or make a sarcastic remark about the treatment he was receiving, but Joe simply traded hands and picked up the book with his non-wounded arm, idly tracing the cheerful cover illustration of the boy carrying the fishing pole. “We had a first edition of Huckleberry Finn at Juniper Street,” he’d said. “Made out to ‘My Dear Doctor Adams.’ I always meant to call you on that, after you told me who you’d been during the late 1800’s. That book was inscribed to you, wasn’t it?”

This was the last turn Methos had expected the conversation to take. “Yes. It was inscribed to me. Benjamin Adams me,” he’d answered, and to cover his confusion he’d risen from the bed and gone to the corner of the room, where an old washstand was serving duty as a makeshift surgical table. He’d started gathering together the things he needed to change Joe’s dressings, doing his best to keep his voice casual. “You wouldn’t happen to know what became of it, would you?”

“I’m assuming it was sold along with the rest of the Juniper Street assets,” Joe had answered. “Unless one of the Council members decided to ‘acquire’ it for his personal collection. It wouldn’t have been returned to storage along with the Chronicles and swords. Nobody knew it was an Immortal artifact.” Methos had nodded. He’d heaped a tray with gauze and sterile bandages and returned to Joe’s side. “If I’d known, I’d have snuck back and tried to save it for you,” Joe had said. “Watcher house arrest or no Watcher house arrest.”

This generosity…especially given Methos’s recent experience of just what being under Watcher arrest could mean…had felt uncomfortable. Methos had decided to focus instead on the laborious process of unwrapping Joe’s bandages. “It’s all right, Joe,” he’d said as he worked. “Seeing the book surface at Juniper Street was wonderful, but I don’t need to have it back. You can’t hold onto every bit of happy memorabilia when you’re Immortal. I’m content to let it go.” Joe had stiffened under his fingers. Methos cursed himself for pulling a bit of stuck bandage too hard, and forced himself to be more careful. “Why didn’t you? Call me on it, I mean.”

Joe had made the little twisty gesture with his fingers that would have to replace a shrug until his shoulder healed. “It took me a while to put two and two together,” he’d said. “By the time I did, you’d already left with Alexa.”

Ouch. Direct hit. Methos hadn’t even begun processing his memories of Alexa yet, the love he’d truly felt for her competing with his certain knowledge that the whirlwind romance he’d dragged her on had just as much avoidance as love in its origin. He’d forced himself to stay businesslike, pulling away the last bit of bloody gauze from Joe’s chest, noting in a distracted kind of way that the wounds were really healing quite nicely given the primitive conditions they’d been tended under. “We haven’t talked a lot since then, have we?” he’d said carefully.

“No. We haven’t.” They were simple words, said in a simple, but very final tone of voice. Methos had nodded and begun to clean around the worst of Joe’s wounds with a moistened cotton ball, willing to accept that that was going to be the last word on the subject. Heaven knew *he* wasn’t ready for a deeper conversation, not ready to break the—yes, he admitted it, the very convenient mask of ‘forgetfulness’ that let him coast along as Joe’s Old Friend and Concerned Family Doctor. Not yet, not until this business with the Watchers was sorted out, and he knew what was going on with MacLeod. But then Joe had spoken again, and Methos suddenly hadn’t been so sure that it was going to end there after all. “It meant a lot to me, you know.”

Methos had felt a frisson of pleasure run up his spine at the husky tone in Joe’s voice, a mixture of honesty and love he hadn’t heard in much, much too long. For a second his hands had faltered…and then he’d forced himself to square his shoulders and go on with his task. “What meant a lot to you, Joe?”

“You know. You coming back for me. Risking your life just to save my ass.”

“Oh.” Methos had felt an irrational disappointment. Of course Joe would think he'd been more heroic than he had. “I didn’t,” he’d corrected, picking up a fresh cotton ball and starting on the next wound. “MacLeod did all the heroic rescuing. I just patched you up afterwards.”

“I didn’t mean the rescue. Of course you couldn’t be there for that; Shapiro sicced his watch dogs on you. I heard the guards talking about it through the door.”

Once again, Methos’s fingers had faltered. He still hadn’t told MacLeod where he had been that night; it would only have given the Highlander more ammunition to hurl at him during their near-daily argument about Methos going to work. Discovering that Joe knew the truth was a shock. “No, I was talking about before that, at the trial.” Joe had continued. “When you came, and brought the book. It meant a lot.” Joe lowered his voice. “Especially since I know the journal was genuine.”

Methos had hesitated. But why try to hide it? “Yes,” he’d admitted, shrugging his shoulders as he started bandaging Joe back up. “It was genuine, Joe. And a fat lot of good it did, too.”

“It did *me* a lot of good. Provided me with some interesting reading material.” There was no way Methos could have hidden his reaction. He’d dropped the gauze he was holding, had to move quickly to keep it from rolling off the bed onto the floor. “The trial ended in a lot of confusion,” Joe had continued. “Nobody saw me pick it up, and I spent the night before my execution trying to read it. It was hard going. My Renaissance Italian is pretty rusty. But I managed a few pages at least.” A deep breath. “You and that Watcher...”

“Brother Andino,” Methos had inserted carefully. “Yes?”

“Brother Andino.” Joe nodded. “You two were a hell of lot more than friends.”

A beat…during which Methos couldn’t bear to look up from Joe’s blankets. If he had, all the masks and protection he’d erected for himself since Joe had been shot would crumble…and he couldn’t do that. Not with MacLeod hovering like a bad dream. Not with the Watchers jumping on every indiscretion with a fervor that made the Salem Witch Trials look like child’s play. Not…when he himself was so confused. *Answer as Methos, not as Adam,* Methos had told himself. *Methos has long experience in not letting anything get to him; it’s just another survival skill. You don’t own this mortal any explanations about your past. Now act like it.* “Shocked, Joe?” he’d said lightly, tossing the now un-sterile bit of gauze negligently over his shoulder and picking up a fresh package. “It does happen from time to time. And I don’t think I ever claimed to have spent the last few centuries living like a monk. Even when…well, even when I was living like a monk.”

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.” Joe’s ruefulness had made Methos glance up sharply, but the man had closed his eyes, his mouth gritted against the pain of having his wounds tended. “Brother Andino sure had some interesting things to say about you, though.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” Eyes still closed, Joe had nodded. “Chief among them was the belief that anyone who took you at your word about anything was a fool. He didn’t blame you for it, though. He seemed to think it was a natural consequence of having to live so many lifetimes in hiding, that you’d gotten so used to concealing your true self that not even you knew what was real and what was false. He said the only way to know the real Methos, the true Methos, was to forget what you said and pay attention to your acts.” Joe had shifted as Methos, hands shaking ever so slightly, had taped a bandage into place. “What do you think of that?”

“I think…he might have had a point,” Methos had said after a long moment of panicked consideration, during which his heart started beating unnaturally fast. He hesitated, then decided that he did want to know. “And which of my acts will you judge me by, Joe Dawson?”

“I’m still trying to decide that.” Joe had yawned. “Let me sleep for a while now, okay? I’m still not feeling my best.”

“Yes. Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” More shaken than he wanted to admit, Methos had gathered up the tray of supplies and carried them back to the washstand. “Joe?”

“Yes, Methos?”

“What did you do with it? The journal, I mean.”

“It’s still in the nursery at the new headquarters,” Joe had answered. “I put it on the shelves right next to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Call me sentimental, but I just didn’t want to take it with me to my execution. I thought it deserved a better fate than being thrown into an unmarked grave with me.” The Watcher’s brown eyes had settled on Methos, expression guarded. “Maybe, when all this mess settles down, you can go back for it. In the meantime, I think you should get some rest too. You look pretty beat, Methos.”

“Yes,” Methos had answered distantly. “Rest. What a good idea. I’ll just…” And he’d quickly moved up the stairs, leaving Joe alone. He needed a few moments to compose himself. And to rail at fate.

***

*Fear was hardly a new experience to the World’s Oldest Immortal. In his time he’d faced Viking raiders, Roman lions, and much, much worse…the prospect of losing everyone and everything he loved, over and over and over again. Still, as Methos made himself walk into the basement of Shakespeare and Co. that day, he felt a new kind of fear altogether: the fear of losing the kind of happiness he’d spent the last several millennia dreaming about. “Joe?”

*“Yes, Methos?”

*“There’s something I need to tell you.”

*“Yeah?” The Watcher went pale. “There hasn’t been another death, has there? Oh god, there has, I can tell from your face. Who is it this time? Not Lindsey…or Brian…”

*“No, no. Nothing like that.” Methos crossed the floor. “It’s just…I remember, Joe.”

*“You remember what?”

*“You, Joe. Us.”

*“Us?”

*“Everything about us. What we were. What you meant to me. What I hoped I meant to you.” Methos reached out his hand to touch Joe’s face, a touch very softly and hesitantly given, since he was terrified that at any moment Joe would slap his hand away. “I know—I can’t expect you to just forget this last year and pick up where we left off. But—I had to tell you. Had to let you know.”

*“When did you remember?”

*“The night before you were shot.”

*“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

*“Joe. You were unconscious for a long time. Then under the influence of some very hefty drugs. Then…” A sigh. “I was indulging in cowardice. I didn’t want to confront you, didn’t want to know how you’d react. But I’ve been with you in this basement for almost a month now, and I…I couldn’t wait any more. I had to know if there was still a chance.”

*“Adam. Don’t say anything more.”

*“Oh.” Pain struck Methos’s heart. His grief was so strong that he could no longer see the room clearly, so disorienting that when he stood up the chair he’d been sitting in toppled over backwards. “All right. I understand. I’ll talk to Mac. You’re well on the way to recovery now, he can look after you all by himself. You won’t have to see me again...”

*“Adam.” Joe barked the command. Methos’s quickly retreating feet halted. “For god’s sake, Adam. You may be 5,000 years old, but in some ways you never grew up at all, did you? You’re still that shy kid who thinks ‘We have to talk’ means ‘I never want to see you again.’” It doesn’t. Neither does “don’t say anything more.” Joe reached out his hand, and the handsome face softened. “In this case, it means ‘get your ass over here and kiss me already.’ We can sort out everything else later.”

*And Methos felt the hope spreading through him as he hurried to obey his beloved’s command…*

***

Joe Dawson awoke with a jerk, the feeling of Adam’s sweet, disbelieving kiss still lingering on his lips and a very insistent hard-on poking up his blankets. He took a quick look around, grateful that neither of his Immortal medics was standing guard for once, then forced himself to his feet and hobbled to the wine cellar’s miniscule bathroom. To call the cramped closet “primitive”, with its old leaden pipes and chain-pull toilet, was the understatement of the century. Even so, Joe sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever had installed it. It had been bad enough having Methos take care of his bodily functions when he’d been too hurt to walk. Now that he could, there was no way he wanted to explain needing clean bedding because he’d come all over his sheets…

Not that Methos wouldn’t have understood. Hell, the old Immortal would probably have provided him with a pile of clean hand towels, a bottle of lube, and a tidy stack of vintage French porn if Joe asked. He’d certainly done everything else humanly possible to attend to Joe’s comfort over the last few weeks. But Joe was *not* going to ask. It was bad enough that he was dreaming about the SOB every time he closed his eyes. And why the hell was he dreaming from the Immortal’s point of view, anyway? Was he really so messed up that his subconscious couldn’t be content with just doing the nasty with the guy, it had to dream up words of undying love as well? Words he had to put into Methos’s own mind in order to believe them? *Get over it, subconscious,* Joe thought. *Adam doesn’t even know we have a past. You’re never going to hear him say those things, so it’s best we both just get over it now. And maybe then we can wake up just once without embarrassing ourselves. Sound like a deal?*

He masturbated quickly, efficiently, the act much more about disposing of an embarrassing necessity than indulging in self-pleasure. Then he flushed the toilet and hobbled back to bed, collapsing onto the mattress. Damn, but it hurt to walk, hurt to even stand. Methos had warned him that it would. “You weren’t hit below the waist, Joe, but it’s still going to be hard to get around,” he’d said, using that blunt-but-compassionate doctor’s voice Joe still hadn’t gotten used to. “You use your upper body muscles a lot for balance. Until they heal, you’ll need to limit your walking, and rely on your cane a lot more than you’re used to. I don’t want you falling and breaking a wrist.” Joe had appreciated both the bluntness and the compassion, just as he’d appreciated all the other kindnesses Methos had shown him. The testing of his nerves to make sure his playing ability wasn’t impaired (Methos hadn’t told him just why he kept tapping in different places on his fingers and asking if he could feel it, but Joe had figured it out.) The careful turning of his body to prevent bed sores, aware that even a small sore in the wrong place would make Joe’s prosthetics too painful to use. The way he’d sent Mac off on an invented errand the first time Joe had been clear-headed enough to really witness the cleansing and re-dressing of his wounds, somehow intuitively knowing that Joe would want to get his first look at the damage in private. The privacy had been necessary. The smell of disinfectant and the slow unwinding of the bandages had made Joe flash back nearly thirty years to another such unveiling, and the horror of what…or rather, what hadn’t…been underneath. His hands had clenched into tight fists, past and present mingling to create a completely irrational fear that might nonetheless have undone Joe completely if he’d been forced to present a calm front to MacLeod. Methos had pulled off the last layer of bandages, staying silent while Joe took a good long look at the wounds, and then….Joe would bless him forever for this…he’d bent in close with that generous nose and SNIFFED. “Holy shit!” Joe had exclaimed, too astonished to pull away. “What the hell was that for?”

“Just checking for infection,” Methos had answered innocently, although his eyes had sparkled. “I studied medicine long before the advent of the modern white cell count, you know. Sometimes a well-trained nose can smell the beginning of an infection long before the eye can see it.” He’d turned his head, very deliberately letting his profile catch the light. “I do have the equipment for it, you must admit.”

“What’s next? Leeches? Shamanic chants?”

“Hmm-om-mucky-mucky-latte,” Methos had solemnly intoned, and Joe had started laughing so hard he’d felt the painful results for hours. Still, the sniffing and the chant had done the trick. Methos had snapped Joe out of his panic, brought him firmly back into the present. The little incident was of a piece with Methos’s every action toward Joe since he’d awakened in the basement: kind, gentle, almost uncannily thoughtful. The actions of a very competent doctor who also happened to be a very competent friend.

It really wasn’t Methos’s fault that Joe wanted more than that.

Or did he? Joe wondered a lot about that as his convalescence continued, giving him ample time to think about everything he knew about Methos, all the new things this crisis had caused him to learn. The snatches Joe had managed to read of Brother Andino’s secret journal before the shooting only added to Joe’s confusion. Andino had clearly loved the man he’d known as Brother John for more than forty years; that love was easy to see, written into every word the long-dead monk had committed to paper. And yet Andino had also had no illusions about John’s flaws, including his habitual duplicity and capacity for violence. Joe still shuddered whenever he recalled one particularly vivid passage in which Andino had witnessed Methos facing a Challenge late one winter’s night. According to the brother, Methos hadn’t simply fought the unknown Challenger to his knees. He’d also cut off both his hands at the wrists, removed his ears and nose, poked out his eyes and sliced open his abdomen before finally taking his head. Unaware that Andino had followed him to the place of combat, Methos apparently hadn’t realized Andino had been watching until “the unholy fire” had ceased to flow. When Methos did finally catch sight of his shivering lover cowering behind a tree, he’d been unphased. “Would you like to know what he did to me and mine, that merited this treatment?” was all he’d asked, and when Andino had dazedly shaken his head he’d said “Then we shall say no more about it”. He’d taken Andino back to the monastery, where he’d tucked him into bed with a glass of mead and a warm brick for his feet. Only when Andino was safe and comfortable had Methos left to “bury his blood-soaked robes, and clean the gore from his hair.” 

The two had never spoken of the incident again. But Andino, quite understandably, had been unable to forget. He’d written about it again and again, returning to the scene several times over the years to come. “I had already determined long ago never to trust the Eldest’s words, but only to judge him from his acts,” the long dead brother had written, in a hand whose shakiness was clearly visible to Joe, four hundred years into the future. “And in the time I have known him he has performed countless acts, both large and small, that have proved him eminently worthy of both my love and God’s. That he is a true child of our Lord I have never before had cause to doubt; no matter how strange his origins, I have seen that there is goodness him, a goodness I was sure our Father would judge worthy of welcoming into his heavenly kingdom at the end of time. But how am I to judge this? God help me, how am I to judge this?”

If Andino had ever recorded an answer for his question, Joe hadn’t found it. Translation really wasn’t Joe’s strong suit, and the journal was very hard reading. Andino had recorded his thoughts on scraps and slips of paper that had only been gathered into a binding right before his death. More often than not his thoughts had been written in between the lines of church grocery orders and other monastery correspondence, making the faded ink that much harder to decipher. The beginning was especially hard to read. Joe hadn’t been able to learn just how Andino and “Brother John” had met, or how the brother had learned John was Methos. Joe hoped that he’d someday have a chance to translate more—not that he really expected to, not now that he’d told Methos where the journal was. The book was simply too precious—and dangerous—to leave unattended. Methos would probably have the book back in his possession before nightfall. But even as roughly translated as Joe’s hasty reading had been, the monk’s words had stuck in Joe’s mind. They proved that he was not the first Watcher to have loved the old Immortal, or to have wondered just how much trust could be bundled with that love. 

Not the first to wonder which of the 1,000 faces was real.

It all came to a head about four weeks after Joe's shooting, on the afternoon Methos came to tell Joe about Jean Dumas’s murder. It had been truly awful day. Joe had insisted that Methos cut back on his pain meds again, which was a mistake. Not only was his chest aching worse than he’d expected, he was also going through withdrawal, leaving him trembley and weak. Hearing Methos say, “I’m sorry Joe, I know he was a friend of yours,” was the last straw. Joe buried his face in his hands, overcome with grief. And wishing very hard that the whole damn world would just go away.

It didn’t. Or at least the two Immortals were now such a large percentage of Joe’s world did not. Duncan protested loudly that he hadn’t killed Jean—it had to be somebody else, that mysterious other Immortal he kept sensing. Methos retorted that Duncan could very well be right, but the Watchers thought Mac was guilty anyway, and had redoubled their efforts to take Mac’s head. A short argument ensued, one Joe paid little attention to. The two Immortals had, after all, been arguing a variation of this particular theme almost every day for the last four weeks. But then Joe heard a tell-tale click. He uncovered his face and looked up to see MacLeod holding a machine gun. “Where’s Shapiro?” Mac inquired.

“Right at the moment? Trying to kill you,” Methos snapped. 

MacLeod glared at Methos, and Joe stared at the gun…just one of the many weapons Methos had stockpiled in the basement during Joe’s stay, a constant grim reminder that they could all be discovered at any time. (Where had Methos gotten his hands on machine guns, anyway? It was just another mystery.) In MacLeod’s hands the weapon looked very professional and business-like, almost obscenely so. Joe felt the sinking feeling in his heart that presaged yet another tragedy. The feeling only intensified when MacLeod opened the weapon and slid a clip into place. Click, click. “Where. Is. Shapiro?”

“No!” Joe exclaimed, quickly chiming in on Methos’s side of the argument. “Jack will be surrounded by Watchers, all armed, all determined to take your head. Don’t make it easy for them, Mac!”

“Look. I’m making it easy for them because that’s where the killer—the *real* killer—will go next. I’m going to be there when he does.” Duncan turned back to Methos. “Now tell me where he is.”

There followed a very tense moment, the two Immortals regarding each other like duelists who had taken the traditional ten steps and now had their pistols cocked and ready to fire. An odd electricity filled the air. Joe had the feeling he could jump up and down and wave his arms in semaphore patterns and neither man would so much as glance his way. Then, suddenly, Methos wilted. “They’re hiding out in a funeral home on the West Bank,” he said, and proceeded to give the Highlander all the details…right down to the street address and even which roads Duncan should take to avoid the evening traffic. Joe watched incredulously as the Highlander made careful note of this, then departed up the stairs. “I can’t believe you just let him go like that!” Joe exclaimed to Methos, who appeared not to want to meet his eyes. “You know…you *know*…what the Watchers will do to him if they catch him!”

“Better that he go now then wait a week until he’s even more riled up and apt to make mistakes,” Methos answered wearily. He started moving tiredly around the room, fruitlessly tidying a stack of manuscript pages here, a pile of clean bedding there. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is a tiger, Joe, not a house cat. All this living in secrecy is making him feel caged. He was bound to snap and demand action sooner or later. I’d rather he does it now, while he still has some sense of caution left. Besides.” The Immortal lip twisted bitterly as he stared down at the laundry. “Do you really think *I* have the power to stop him?”

“No, but—” Joe said. Then shut his mouth. And thought. Really thought, for perhaps the first time since he’d woken up in this place. “No,” he said softly. “No, you didn’t. Come to think of it, Methos, you haven’t had the power to stop him from much of *anything* lately. You two argue a lot…hell, I’ve heard you and Mac exchange words this last week that would have gotten me expelled from school…but apart from continuing to go to work, in the end you’ve capitulated every time. And the only reason you won that fight was because Mac dropped it before it could come to swords.” Methos, his back still turned, stiffened ever so slightly. Joe frowned thunderously, remembering a conversation he’d been too drugged to pay much attention to when he’d first overheard it, but which now came back to him with vivid clarity. “Methos,” he said slowly. “What the hell did you mean when you told Mac he owned your Quickening?”

Methos started fussing with the clean blanket on top of the laundry pile, folding and refolding it mechanically. “That…is none of your business, Joe.”

“Does he have some kind of power over you?”

“Joe. I repeat: Business. This is none of yours.”

“You said that if he tried to order you to quit, he’d find himself facing one hell of a Challenge, and this time it might end differently,” Joe said, mind spinning as he remembered. “I didn’t take you seriously at the time. I was still pretty drugged up—and anyway it just seemed obvious to me that if it had really come to swords between you, one or the other of you would be dead. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? You two actually fought.” No answer from Methos, which Joe took as a tacit admission. “Oh my god. He Challenged you, didn’t he? Mac actually tried to take your head.” Suddenly full of outrage, Joe forced his tired body to stand, searching desperately for his coat so he could go and find MacLeod. He didn’t know what he’d do when he found him exactly—he just knew this could not be allowed to pass. “That bastard. I can’t believe he would do this. Just wait until I get my hands on him…he’ll wish Jack had found him first…”

“Joe.”

“Don’t try to stop me, Methos! Somebody’s got to knock some sense into that swelled Highland head of his. I can’t believe…”

“Joe.”

“…After everything’s he’s always said…all his talk about ethics and honor…and knowing what you are, what would be lost…he actually tried to take your head…”

“Joe.” The third repetition of his name was very soft, so incongruously calm that Joe had to stop his search for his coat and look up. Methos was lounging against the wall, face pale but resolute. “MacLeod didn’t Challenge me. I Challenged him.”

The soft, gentle words fell like raindrops…powerful raindrops. They put out the fire that was smoldering in Joe’s gut almost instantly. “You…you what?” he said blankly. “Why?”

Methos looked at him. For a moment his eyes were the eyes of a small boy’s, very lost and frightened…and then a sarcastic smile curled the beautiful lips, transforming the face into something hard and mocking. The change was astounding, and Joe felt his gut contract. “Well, that’s interesting,” Methos said tauntingly. “MacLeod’s automatically a total bastard if he Challenged me, tried and convicted without the opportunity to speak on his own behalf, but I get a chance to explain? That’s not very balanced, Joe. Not very Watcher-like.”

The mocking tone was almost as inflammatory as the thought of MacLeod trying for Methos’s head had been. Joe felt his hands curl into impotent fists. “Yeah, well, I think I’ve proven time and time again that my oath goes out the window when it comes to the two of you,” he said through gritted teeth. “And *you* are trying to push my buttons on purpose to distract me from my question. I’m not MacLeod, I can tell. So stop playing head games with me and just tell me what the hell happened.”

Methos glared. There was a long silence during which Joe almost expected him to raise a fist…and then Methos suddenly blinked and looked away. “You really can tell, can’t you,” he said softly. “It’s been a long, long time since anyone’s known me that well.”

“I know you better than any mortal since Brother Andino,” Joe said, and saw the old Immortal wince. “Which just means the both of us had the chance to see what a complete and utter son of a bitch you can be. So. Tell me the truth. Why did you Challenge MacLeod?”

“It didn’t start out as a Challenge, Joe.”

“Then what did it start out as?”

“I tricked him out of his sword and held it on him. I was trying to prove a point.”

“You held a sword on him,” Joe repeated incredulously. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You took it upon yourself to threaten one of the best swordsmen in the Game to prove a point? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF POINT COULD POSSIBLY HAVE BEEN SO IMPORTANT?” Methos didn’t answer. “You reckless bastard,” Joe said, fear and anger at what he could have lost suddenly rising up and bringing tears to his eyes. “You stupid, stupid son of a bitch. Didn’t I *tell* you never to do anything that idiotic again?”

“Yes,” Methos said quietly. “You did.” And the world wobbled.

Wobbled, because there had only been one time when Joe had ever said any such thing…that morning after Don’s death when they’d gone to the park and Methos had told him just why, after 5,000 years of living, he’d offered his head to MacLeod. Joe stared at Methos, seeing the Immortal’s discomfort, his sudden shame…and he knew. He knew the truth. “You remembered,” he breathed. “You remembered.”

***

More than anything else in the world, Joe wanted Methos to react with confusion. A perplexed “Remember what?” would have been nice. A startled “What are you going on about, Joe? I think you need some more pain medication,” would have been even better. But Methos was simply silent for a long time, looking down at the floor…and when he finally looked up Joe saw fear, and guilt, and a glimpse of pain so deep Joe had only ever seen the like once before, when a certain Quickening-tainted dream had given him a glimpse into what 5,000 years of Immortality was really like. “Yes,” Methos said, and there was a certain rusty quality to his voice, like a long-frozen gate slowly creaking shut. “Yes. I remember.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Blindly, unsteadily, Joe groped for his cane and hurried toward the stairs. Methos got quickly to his feet, an objection on his lips. Joe waved an agonized hand in his direction, hoping to forestall it. “No. No. Don’t try to stop me.”

“But your chest…”

“Is fine. You said yourself I was almost well enough to travel.” The pain Joe felt as he negotiated the first few steps was bad enough to prove that the emphasis should have been put on the “almost” instead of the “well”, but Joe didn’t care. All he knew was that he had to get out of there, now. “I need some time alone.”

“Joe…”

“FUCK OFF.” The savage vehemence in Joe’s voice took both men by surprise. Methos fell back, startled and hurt. “Just let me go.”

Joe stomped his way to the top of the stairs and pushed his way out of the empty store.

***

Methos fell back, startled and hurt…but only for a few moments. When he heard the belled front door of Shakespeare and Co. open and slam shut, he grabbed his coat and followed Joe at a run, taking the stairs three at a time. Understandable need to escape or not, Methos could not let Joe get himself killed—which was exactly what would happen if he ran into a Watcher mob. Grimly, Methos rifled in Don’s old desk for his revolver and its ammunition, making sure that the gun was loaded before he shoved it into his front coat pocket. Then he barreled out into the street.

He tailed Joe for quite a while, staying well behind while the Watcher limped angrily through the streets. Joe’s agitated, ungainly walk was an eloquent testament to his state of mind. Fortunately, it was dark out, and keeping out of sight was relatively easy—although, as the blocks went by and Joe’s pace began to slow, Methos got the impression that Joe knew perfectly well that Methos was following him, and just didn’t want to waste the energy it would take to confront him. Eventually, Joe reached a small bridge and came to a stop halfway across, leaning on the handrail as he stared morosely at the river below. Methos, knowing for sure now that he’d been seen, stopped at the bridge’s edge. When Joe didn’t object to his presence, he crept a little bit closer, then closer still. At last he was leaning on the railing more or less at Joe’s side. Joe spoke heavily. “It’s dark outside.”

“I know.”

“Kinda took me by surprise. I’ve been in the basement so long that I think I’d forgotten night and day still happened. It’s funny, how easy it is to get used to things, forget that they ever were any other way,” Joe said. And then the questions began, as Methos had known they would. “How long?”

“Several weeks now,” Methos answered honestly. He looked at the aging mortal hands clutching the bridge’s railing, wishing with all his heart that he could just reach out and take one of them in his. But it was too early. If he tried, Joe would pull away. “Since the day before you were shot.”

“Then I was right,” Joe said. “You knew who I was, who we were, at the trial. You’d remembered by then.” Methos nodded. “How?”

“I’d been suspicious that there was something important missing from my life for quite some time. After we talked on the phone about Warren Cochran, I went looking for some answers.”

“And you found them?”

“Yes.”

“What—” Joe hesitated for a moment, and Methos got the impression that he was going to phrase the next question very carefully. “What exactly do you remember, Methos? Just how much do you recall?”

Methos hunched his shoulder awkwardly. “Everything up until the moment I took Kristin’s head," he said quietly. "After that, things are all a blur until I woke up on MacLeod’s couch.”

“You don’t remember anything about the Quickening itself?” Methos shook his head. “Then you don’t remember me picking you up afterwards, taking you back to my place. You don’t remember any of what happened that night.”

“You were the one who picked me up after the Quickening? Not MacLeod?” Joe nodded, leaving Methos feeling very surprised and troubled. It was bad enough to have recovered his memories after so much time. It was far more horrible to learn that there was still at least one more very important gap. Part of him really didn’t want to ask the next question. But he didn’t have very much choice. “What happened, Joe?”

“You kept burning me." Joe held up his hands. In the dim illumination of the bridge’s street lamps Methos could just make out the faint scars on Joe’s palms, several tiny circles of skin that were shiny and stretched. He had noticed them before while he was testing Joe’s dexterity, but he’d assumed they were the souvenirs of some cooking mishap or other accident. Why hadn’t he looked more closely? “Little bits of blue fire kept licking out of your skin,” Joe continued, returning his hands to the railing. “I had to put on gloves just to get you to the car, which wasn’t easy. You were very disoriented, kept talking about how the earth was moving and wanting to buck you off into outer space. But I got you home, got you into bed—you were really cold, teeth chattering no matter how many blankets and coats I put on top of you. You went to sleep, I crowded in beside you. And then…things got really strange.”

“Really strange,” Methos repeated hollowly. Obviously, taking Kristin’s Quickening had been a disaster in more ways then he’d known. His unbalanced Quickening had wanted to leave his body and go to MacLeod, resulting in the dancing blue fire Joe had witnessed. But why had the unsettled energy turned on Joe? In the absence of MacLeod or another Immortal, the extra energy should have grounded itself in the earth, not attacked a mortal. And it certainly shouldn’t have burned him so badly it left scars. “Strange how, exactly?”

“I dreamed about you,” Joe said. “And in the dream your Quickening didn’t burn. It slid over my skin instead, into my flesh. And when it did, I felt things. Saw things, too.” The mortal looked uncomfortable. “I think I saw some of your memories, Methos. Experienced a little bit of what it’s like to be you.”

Methos could feel himself growing colder by the minute. He’d heard about things like this happening…times when a still-living Immortal’s Quickening would get bound up with another’s, giving the second Immortal access to the first’s energy and sometimes his memories too. Methos had counted his lucky stars that this hadn’t happened with MacLeod, since the last thing he wanted was for Duncan to know about his bloody past. But had it been more than luck? Had Duncan escaped Methos’s memories because they’d gone to Joe instead? Impossible, impossible. Joe was mortal, not even Pre-Immortal, a simple and ordinarily human being. He had to be wrong. “Tell me what you saw, Joe.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“It was confusing, mostly,” Joe admitted. “I heard snatches of music, saw glimpses of people and places I knew I'd never seen. I saw Darius several times—you two must have played a hell of a lot of chess over the centuries. And this man with dark hair and a scar under one eye. Sometimes his face was painted, sometimes not, but he always had the scar.” Methos’s body went completely numb. Joe shot an apprehensive look at him, but he went on. “And I saw you kill,” he finished sadly. “Mortals, Immortals…so many deaths. Sometimes it felt like I was standing waist-deep in a river, only the river was made of blood instead of water. And then…well, I think I may have felt you take a Quickening.” The bluesman took a deep breath. “You really aren’t ‘just a guy’, are you. No matter how much you protest to the contrary.”

There could only be one answer. If Joe had seen into his mind…which he must have, as there was no other way he could have known about Kronos…there was no way to deny it. “No,” Methos said levelly. “I’m not.”

“Do you know why it happened? Why I saw what I did?” Methos shook his head. “It wasn’t just my imagination, was it.”

“No.” Methos’s voice was soft and shaky. “No. Everything you saw real.” He gave a sickly smile. “At least now I can stop wondering why you didn’t tell me about us after I lost my memory. After seeing all that, it must have been a relief to just…forget it all yourself. Pretend we never happened.” *Forget what kind of inhuman, Immortal monster had shared your bed. Oh, Joe. Joe…*

“No. No, that wasn’t it,” Joe answered. “I’m not exactly an innocent when it comes to killing myself, you know. Vietnam saw to that. And I’ve read my history books. I know the kind of times you’ve lived through. Hell, the whole great human story is a journey from one bloodbath to the next; of course you got caught up in it. I’ll admit it was a bit…unnerving…to see some of it with my own eyes, but…” Joe took a deep breath. “That’s not why I kept my mouth shut. 

The tiniest, barest spark of hope flared in Methos’s heart. “Why did you, then?”

“MacLeod.” Methos stiffened. “You were lovers, Methos. And don’t give me any more of that crap about how it didn’t happen until you needed someone after Alexa died. I know that isn’t true. It happened before you lost your memory, while we were still together. I know it did, because…” Joe’s voice hardened. “Because MacLeod himself told me so.”

“He…what?” Methos gasped. *Oh, god. He wouldn’t even tell *me*, and he goes and tells my lover? This can’t be happening. It just can’t.* “When did he…what did he…”

“The morning after you killed Kristin,” Joe said. He waved his hands defensively. “I was scared, okay? I couldn’t get you to wake up, and you felt so damn feverish. I had to call *someone* for help. When Mac came, he told me the Quickening hadn’t settled, and he wanted to take you away. I didn’t want to let him. I didn’t really trust him with you, not knowing how angry he was with you for killing Kristin. So I asked him how I knew he wasn’t just going to take your head when he got you out of my sight. He got all shocked, and then he told me you were perfectly safe, because HE would never take the head of someone who’d shared his bed…” Methos groaned softly, covering his face with his hands. “So you see, you can’t lie to me about this one,” Joe finished. “I know the truth.”

“Joe.” Things were getting more out of control by the moment. “I—you have to know that I didn’t mean for it to happen. I…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Joe interrupted. “Hell, I’ve *used* that one before. And it’s never an explanation, Methos. It’s always just an excuse.” Methos opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again…for what could he really say? Joe was absolutely right. “It hurt like hell, MacLeod telling me he’d been with you,” Joe said. “It hurt like…well, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I even thought that maybe I knew what it felt like to be run through with a sword, it hurt so bad.” The Watcher sighed, and something in his posture hardened. “But maybe it was for the best.”

Methos had to swallow several times before he could trust himself to speak. “For the best, Joe?”

“Yeah.” Joe sounded unhappy, but resigned. He gestured at Methos, then touched his own chest. “Me mortal, you Immortal, remember? Fundamentally incompatible. After all, that’s the reason behind this whole mess we’re in with the Watchers, isn’t it?” Joe looked bleakly out at the water. “There are reasons the Watchers don’t consort with their subjects, you know, reasons beyond the need to keep our work secret. Mortal and Immortal lives don’t mix. We’re just too different.”

Methos swayed slightly. He was suddenly very aware that he was standing on a bridge, and that only a thin layer of metal was keeping him from plunging into the rushing, icy depths below. “Is that what you really think, Joe?”

He’d asked the question once before, in an Italian restaurant in Seacouver. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Certainly, more than a lifetime of events had happened since then. Perhaps it was inevitable that those events had changed Joe’s answer. “I don’t know,” Joe said gravely. “I know I loved my Adam, with every ounce of love that was in me. I did my best to love Methos, too, what little of him you let me see. But the odds were against us from the beginning, weren’t they?” He looked at Methos, clearly seeking confirmation. When Methos could manage neither an assent nor a denial—he felt frozen inside, too frozen too move—Joe shrugged his shoulders sadly. “You know, I’ve spent the last eight months wishing that I’d never asked MacLeod to protect you from Kalas,” he said. “I kept thinking that’s where it all went wrong. I could have lived with believing you were a new Immortal--we would have had to quit the Watchers eventually, and found a new place to live every time the neighbors started noticing that you were keeping your hair a bit too well, but it could have worked out. After all, you were still my Adam, just a bit new and improved in the health department. You would have had the same interests, the same history, the same damn birthday for god’s sake…”

“Joe.” Methos’s voice was choked. “Joe, that me is still in here. I can still be your Adam. If you want me.”

“No, Methos, you can’t,” Joe said gravely. “You didn’t let me finish. I know now that Kalas did us a favor. Because you’re *not* Adam Pierson, and sooner or later something would have happened to prove that. Maybe another Immortal would have found you, one who knew you before my Adam was born. Or maybe I would have finally bought a clue and figured it out by myself. God knows there were enough things that didn’t add up, things that should have made me suspect. But it doesn’t really matter. My Adam died the day Kalas decided to try for Methos’s head…but only because he’d never really existed in the first place. We can’t go back. And if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll discover that you don’t really want to. You like being Methos. You like finally having the freedom to be yourself.” A brief hesitation. “With MacLeod.”

Disbelief filled Methos. “That’s it, isn’t it,” he said angrily. “That’s the real reason behind everything you’ve been saying. You think I’m in love with MacLeod.”

“No, Methos. I haven’t a clue as to what *you* really feel,” Joe said, with exaggerated patience of a man explaining something to a very small child. “I don’t know this you well enough to judge. That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it? What I do know is how Mac feels. And he’s so damn crazy to have you see him as something more than a convenient drinking buddy-slash-whipping boy that he’s about to tear himself in two.”

“You’re insane!”

“Am I?” Joe said quizzically. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you, if you really Challenged him the way you say. It worries me that you seem to get so out of control whenever he’s around. But I’ve Watched Mac for a long, long time now, and I can tell you this—he cares for you. You thought those arguments about you still working for the Watchers were just him being a control freak? They weren’t. He’s worried sick that you’re going to cut your finger or fall down the stairs in front of the wrong people, and they’ll behead first and ask questions later when you heal. If you gave him the slightest encouragement…”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this! Joe, you have lost your mind.”

“Maybe,” Joe said doubtfully. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it. I shouldn’t have brought him up--we’re talking about you and me, not you and him. And you and me…” Joe let the sentence hang while a whole kaleidoscope of feelings crossed his features, finally settling on pained acceptance. “There is no you and me,” Joe finished in a whisper. “I’m sorry, Methos. There just isn’t.”

There was no question that Joe meant it. Methos heard the tone of finality, the unmistakable ring of a mind and heart that was made up, and felt something crack deep inside. *I will never, ever stand on a bridge again,* Methos thought dazedly. *They are nothing but bad luck. Yes, I always end up living to tell the tale afterward—but I always end up wishing I hadn’t. Something precious is always lost…* He hurt so badly that a temporary death would have been a welcome thing. A thousand times he’d loved and lost, been widowed and estranged and just plain dumped; never, ever had he felt it this keenly. Because this wasn’t just a rejection of the him-of-the moment. It was a rejection of his very soul. From the first being in centuries he’d hoped would be able to understand. “So it’s over then,” he heard himself say. “As easily as that?”

“Not easily,” Joe said heartfully. “And not over, not yet. We can’t just go our separate ways. First we have to figure out who’s been killing all these Watchers, and get the Watchers to take the price off me and Mac’s heads. But after that…” Joe sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it’s finally over.”

*Say something, say something, say something. Say something that will make this all right.* Methos ran through a thousand possibilities in his mind. He could only come up with five words that held the power he was looking for. “But I love you, Joe.”

Joe’s sad, tender smile was the most heartbreaking thing Methos had ever seen. “Maybe you do,” he said. “But when has love alone ever been enough?” And with that he turned and started limping back toward Shakespeare and Co. The conversation was over.

Methos slumped over the railing and hung on, hung on, fingers clutching the cool metal surface for dear life. If he didn’t, the vengeful earth would succeed in bucking him off.

Perhaps she already had.

***

Neither Methos nor Joe got much sleep that night. After their conversation on the bridge, Joe had returned to the basement, stretching out on the bed while he endlessly turned pages of the novel he wasn’t actually bothering to read. Methos knew this because he spent the entire night in the bookstore above, peeking down the stairs every half hour to make sure that Joe was still all right, and more often than not when he did the book was upside down in Joe’s big hands. Methos cursed himself for a fool, knowing that he was behaving as stupidly as a moth flapping around a light bulb. He couldn’t leave Joe but he couldn’t talk to him either, couldn’t reach the light he craved but couldn’t simply fly away and leave it alone. So he hovered, fluttering around the bookstore over Joe’s head, dusting and cleaning windows and inventorying with an energy the old store had seldom seen. As a result, Shakespeare and Co. was in quite the bright shiny state when MacLeod came in the door. He was breathless and shaken and quite clearly carrying a heavy burden of news. Methos, who, unlike the store, was dusty and crabby and worn out, took one look at him and realized afresh that no matter how bad things were, there was always room for them to get worse. “What happened?” he demanded, dust rag still in hand.

“I found out who’s been killing the Watchers.”

For a second, Methos tasted sweet relief. “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. But MacLeod just sagged wearily, and Methos frowned. Someone, in his heart of hearts, he knew that he was about to be taken on a roller coaster ride even worse than he’d already endured. “It is wonderful, isn’t it?”

“No. It isn’t wonderful at all.” Duncan answered. He looked around the store. “Where’s Joe? He has to hear this, too.”

“Downstairs,” Methos replied. He followed Duncan into the basement. 

The moment Joe saw Mac he dropped his book and got to his feet, alarmed. “What’s happened?” he demanded, looking at Methos. “Who’s been killed?”

“No one. At least not so far as I know,” Methos answered, taking a seat on an old trunk placed against the wall. The position allowed him to keep an eye on both Joe and MacLeod without being in either man’s direct line of sight. “Duncan thinks he’s discovered who the real killer is.”

“But that’s wonderful, Mac! All we have to do is turn him in to the Watchers, and you and I can go free...”

“It’s not that simple, Joe.”

“Oh no?” Just the hint of a stony glint came into Joe’s eyes. “And just why isn’t it that simple, Mac?”

“This other Immortal. I know him.”

“Yes?”

“We were…friends,” Duncan said, and started speaking very quickly, holding up his hands. “No, don’t look at me like that. I know what he’s done, all right? But I’m telling you, it’s not as simple as turning him in. Ja—this Immortal had reason for what he did. Maybe not a *good* reason, but you need to hear him out. You do, Joe.”

“I see.” Oh, yes, Joe’s eyes were definitely getting stonier by the minute. The mortal’s chin lifted to a stubborn angle. “Who is it, Mac?”

“I really don’t think that’s…”

“WHO?”

It was a barked word, more command than question. Methos watched Duncan hesitate, and then the Highlander’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Jacob Galati,” he said, in a low, subdued voice. “But Joe, you have to listen to me. He had reason…”

Jacob Galati. Both Joe and Methos stiffened when they heard the name; they each were familiar enough with Duncan’s Chronicles to know what Jacob had been to Mac. Shield brother. Best friend. Quite possibly Duncan’s lover, too, before Galati had married Irena Pooro. Methos had a sudden horrible premonition that this was going to end very, very badly. But Joe, for his part, straightened subtly. The flinty look in his eyes slowly began to be replaced by fire, and Methos was reminded that Joe too was a warrior, capable of inflicting great damage and death for causes he considered just. “Reasons,” Joe said. “For killing more than 80 innocent people. He had reasons for that?”

And Duncan tried to explain, words faltering and slow, just what Jacob’s reasons were. How men with tattoos had burned Jacob and Irena out of their home one night, beheading Irena while Jacob looked helplessly on. How ever since Jacob had made it his life’s work to seek out and eradicate every man and woman who bore such a tattoo, the ‘mark of the beast’ as he saw it. Methos felt his heart plummet. So an Immortal was finally demanding vengeance for James Horton’s sins. Could Methos really blame Galati for this? What would *he* have done, what would he have assumed, if he’d seen tattoo-bearing mortals behead a loved one without knowing what the Watchers really were? But Joe seemed unmoved. When Duncan finished by asking Joe to meet with Jacob, to explain to him what the Watchers really were, Joe simply shook his head. “The guy’s a murderer,” he said. “I won’t meet with him.”

“Horton killed Irena in front of him. Then he tried to kill Jacob,” Duncan repeated, as if he didn’t quite believe Joe hadn’t heard him the first time. “He thinks you’re all to blame.”

“So that gives him a license to kill?”

“Joe, just meet with him. Please. Talk with him. Tell him you’re not like Horton.”

“People are dead, MacLeod! *My* people, my friends. All because this Jacob Galati thinks we’re responsible?”

“Can you blame him? Watchers killed his wife!”

“HORTON killed his wife!”

“HORTON WAS A WATCHER!”

MacLeod bellowed the last sentence with enough force to rattle some of the manuscript pages still hanging from the roof beams. “Horton is dead,” Joe returned after a moment, settling himself back on the bed. “But your friend is still killing. So when is it going to end, MacLeod? When he’s dead?” Joe sneered. “Or when *we* are?”

Methos flinched. Could MacLeod hear that, the subtle emphasis Joe had just put on the “we”? *Joe’s drawing lines,* Methos thought in a panic. *Oh, shit. We, you, us, them, mortal, Immortal… that’s the kind of thinking that starts world wars. The kind of thinking that makes atrocity possible, because, after all, ‘we’ are always more deserving than ‘them’. What the hell am I going to do?* “All I know is that I’m sick of losing friends,” MacLeod answered passionately. “We’ll find another way.”

“You know, I don’t think there is another way.” Joe began to limp out of the room. 

Methos knew he couldn’t let it end like that. He hurried after his former lover, laying a hand on Joe’s shoulder to prevent him from leaving. Joe stiffened horribly under his touch, looking like he wanted to push Methos away, but he stopped. “Joe, Joe, we have to stop this,” Methos said earnestly. “Because otherwise more people are going to die.”

Joe stared at Methos’s hand pointedly, and Methos pulled away, stung. Joe’s expression clearly said that he had no right to touch him anymore, not even in friendship. “*We*?” Joe inquired icily.

And there was that word again. How did Joe mean it? Was he really dividing the world, setting mortal against Immortal? Or was it more personal than that, a simple reiteration that Methos and Joe would never act as a ‘we’ again? Methos’s mouth dropped open…and then he fumbled at his sleeve, pulling it back to reveal his tattoo. It had now been on his wrist for so many years that it was almost as faded as Joe’s. “Yes, *we*,” he said. “I wear one of these too, remember?” His eyes narrowed. “Or did you forget that?”

Joe studied him. “I didn’t forget,” he said. “But we both know what you really are.” And with that Joe turned and left.

It was like being slapped in the face. Methos reeled—but maintained enough presence of mind to keep MacLeod from storming off after him. This had gone beyond the greater argument about what was to be done with Galati and Shapiro. This was personal. Duncan had no place in it. “No, Highlander, stop,” Methos said. “I’ll talk to him. Try to make him see reason.”

“Well, you better,” Duncan said darkly. “Because if either Jacob or Shapiro put a bullet through his head, Joe’s not the kind to get born again.” And Methos shivered, and for the second time in 24 hours hurried after Joe.

***

“I stood close enough to hear you say:

Do as the beautiful ones do.

Tore up my picture from its frame

Just wanted to be one of you.

Standing on the outside

Looking in….

State of grace, state of sin.

Standing on the outside,

Looking in…

Funny how you see the truth.

But the feeling will come back...

Sheryl Crow’s distinctive voice, yet another example of American popular culture infiltrating the rest of the globe, was crooning from the Volvo’s radio as Methos parked in the alley behind Shakespeare and Co. Despite the fact that the radio was silenced at the same moment as the engine, the melancholy melody stuck in Methos’s head, haunting him all the way to the door as he drew out his key and unlocked it with tired fingers. Sometimes, American pop singers really had an uncanny way of hitting the nail on the head. Standing on the outside, looking in. It could be the whole damn story of his life. 

He’d certainly done his share of it this afternoon.

Joe, sitting outside Le Funeres Pompes a few short hours ago, had said he’d had enough irony for one day. Methos had had enough for a lifetime. He was an Immortal, permanent outsider among Watchers, and yet for the second time since this crisis had begun his Adam Pierson identity had been someone’s passport into the secret society. Methos had let Joe hold Methos’s own gun against his back, treating him as a hostage in order to get past the Watcher guards. Then he’d stood silently by while Joe spoke to Jack Shapiro. Nobody had seemed particularly interested in what Methos had to say, and looking back on it, it was obvious that his input hadn’t been necessary. Joe and Shapiro seemed perfectly capable of laying their plans without him. Methos checked his watch. In less than fifteen minutes, Joe would meet up with Jacob Galati. Then Jacob would be shot, and heaved into the back of a Watcher van, and then…

And then what? Shapiro said he would be questioned. Shapiro said he would stand trial. Shapiro said that Joe could even pick the jurors to ensure that the trial was fair…that if they wanted, Duncan MacLeod could serve as one of the twelve…all while standing in his mobster’s suit and smiling his crocodile smile that made Methos mistrust every word. But Joe trusted Shapiro to do the right thing. Joe would stand by, gun in hand, to see that Jacob had a fair chance. Surely, that was enough.

Now the only thing left to do was to explain all this to MacLeod.

The bookstore was cold, and much too quiet. Methos reflected that he’d gotten too used to knowing that Joe would be waiting downstairs when he let himself in. Well, that was over now. The basement was no longer of use to Joe as either a hospital or hideout, and now that Methos’s own usefulness as human passport had been exhausted, Methos strongly doubted he’d ever see the Watcher again. Methos wearily tread down the steps to the basement and began stripping Joe’s bed, packing away the pillows, tossing blankets and sheets into a box to take to the laundry. He was just folding up an aged flowered bedspread when he felt MacLeod’s Buzz. “Methos?”

“Downstairs, Highlander.”

“Thank god. I was so worried…” MacLeod clattered down the stairs. He took one look at the stripped bed and stopped dead. “Where’s Joe?”

Methos sighed. Might as well get it over with. “He’s meeting with Jacob Galati.”

“Alone? Without one of us to protect him?” The Highlander looked like he thought Methos had lost his mind. Methos could sympathize. “Methos, that’s suicide! What if he runs into a Watcher death squad? Or what if Jacob doesn’t listen to him, and decides to take advantage of the opportunity to rid the world of one more ‘beast’, as he calls you? We have to go after him!”

“The Watchers are no longer a problem for Joe, MacLeod. He and Shapiro have patched things up rather nicely.”

“They what?” MacLeod’s eyebrows shot sky high. “And just how the hell did you two manage that?”

So Methos told him. About the meeting with Shapiro, and about the ambush that should taking place…Methos checked his watch again…right about now. He didn’t try to hide his own role in it, how he was responsible for getting Joe in to see Shapiro in the first place. And he didn’t try to protect himself from MacLeod’s reaction. “I can’t believe you let Joe do that,” the Highlander said softly, dangerously. “How could you let him do that?”

Methos shook his head helplessly. What to say? “It was a simple choice,” he stated bluntly, turning his back to fold up the spread. “Jacob Galati, or you and Joe. And since I don’t happen to give a damn about Jacob Galati…it wasn’t that difficult a choice to make.”

“Yeah, I guess it wasn’t!”

Duncan’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, his voice strained with incredulous hurt. Methos steeled himself. “I’m a pragmatist, MacLeod,” he said coldly. “The Watchers wanted the real killer, and I wanted to keep you and Joe alive. You can’t have it both ways.”

“No. You’re right, Methos. You can’t have it both ways.” The words came out in a sort of a growl, barely civilized speech at all. Methos almost expected MacLeod to hit him, send him crashing to the floor. But what came next was worse than any blow. “You’re either one of them…or you’re one of us. Got it?”

Duncan spun on his heel, all ready to storm up the stairs. Methos watched him cross the room. For a second his fingers itched to grab the Highlander's coat collar and yank him back, just as his fists itched to punch and keep on punching until they were both covered in blood and some of this horrible ache in his soul was cleansed. Methos raised his hands....and dropped them again. Anger almost always required some kind of righteousness to maintain it, and he didn't have that. All he had was sorrow, and this soul-deep sense of loneliness he didn't think could ever be cured. As MacLeod lifted his foot to ascended the first step, Methos suddenly felt the last of his anger seep away, leaving him as limp and tired as inflatable raft whose plug had been pulled. “Don’t make me do it, Highlander,” he said quietly. “It’s been a very, very hard couple of weeks and I…I’m not strong enough. Please, don’t make me do it.”

Duncan halted in his tracks. He turned around slowly. “Don’t make you do what?” he asked.

“Don’t make me choose,” Methos answered. “Don’t make me pick between you and the mortals I’ve loved for more than two thousand years.” Duncan looked deeply startled. Methos chuckled humorlessly. “Yes, Highlander, two thousand years. More than four times as long as you’ve been alive, can you imagine? For two entire millennia I’ve been with them off and on, watching them develop, helping them grow—“

“Helping them kill?”

“No!” Methos shouted. He shook his head fiercely. “No. Before Horton, a Watcher killing an Immortal had happened only twice. Two times in all of recorded history. Once in 1433 a Watcher and a very young Immortal happened to fall in love with the same woman, and the Watcher took the Immortal’s head after he won the duel to ensure he stayed dead and out of the way. The second time was more complicated—it was in the east, an Immortal who was samurai to a shogun who also happened to be a Watcher, and the shogun had no choice but to behead the samurai when he dishonored his vows. Neither time was the killing motivated by the Immortal’s immortality, MacLeod. It took a psychopath like Horton to change that.” Methos looked earnestly into MacLeod’s eyes. “Don’t you understand? They know what we are, and they don’t fear us. For millennia, they’ve kept our secret without either picking up the ax or running away in terror. If the Gathering ever turns out to be more than a myth and the One is finally decided…”

“You don’t believe in the Gathering!”

“No,” Methos agreed. “But you do, and Darius did, and I have been known to be wrong. All I’m saying is that *if* it happens, the Watchers will be the only people on earth to remember us. The only ones who will know the truth of what we were.” He swallowed hard and walked away, turning his back on the Highlander in favor of staring at the basement’s aged stones. “I love them, MacLeod. Every last man and woman of them. Yes, some of them are idiots and some of them stun me with their prejudices, but on the whole they are magnificent—brave and loyal and true. For twenty centuries, they’ve done more than just provide me with a haven from the Game. They’ve given me friendship, conversation, love…” Methos realized that his voice was shaking, and stopped to steady himself. “They’ve let me be mortal. Don’t make me give that up.”

“Methos.” There was a surprising amount of compassion in Duncan’s voice. Methos heard footsteps approach, then felt a gentle touch, first on his lower arm and then on his shoulder. “You’re *not* mortal, Methos,” Duncan said softly. “I know that you’ve been living that lie for so long that parts of you have come to believe it, but it isn’t true. You’ll never be one of them, not really. You’ll never truly fit.”

“I did a damned good job of it for longer than you know,” Methos said bitterly, trying to ignore how…comforting…it felt to have Duncan touching him like this. “Tell me, just what is it about me doesn’t fit? Love of history? Got it in spades, even for the events I didn’t experience personally. Genuine reverence for the old stories, and a strong need to preserve them? I have that, too. I risked my head saving the Chronicles from the Visigoths in 410, and almost got my ass shot off hiding them from the Nazis in 1940. I’ve spent more time translating and recopying old Chronicles than any Watcher in history. I even bloody well like playing for the researcher’s softball team and listening to the water cooler gossip about which Immortal’s shacked up with which new mortal lover.” His voice rose pleadingly. “Tell me, tell me, where in that is anything that won’t fit?”

“They can only study Immortals, Methos,” MacLeod answered, compassionate but firm. “You know what it’s like to actually be one of us.”

“‘One of us.’” Methos chuckled sourly. “MacLeod, in case you haven’t noticed, Immortals are hardly a homogenous social group. Ninety percent of us are trying to kill one hundred percent of the others at any given time, and the rest of us don’t exactly form garden clubs. Not to mention that, even by Immortal standards, I am so…fucking…old that nobody can understand what I’ve seen and done. To most of us, I’m merely a prize to be taken. And even to those few who can think with their brains instead of their sword arms I’m merely a curiosity…”

The pressure on Methos’ shoulder deepened slightly. “I don’t think of you as ‘merely’ anything, Methos.”

“No,” Methos conceded. His body sagged against the wall. “But you *do* consider me a curiosity. A great one instead of a mere one, perhaps. But a curiosity, nonetheless.”

“I consider you to be absolutely unique, Methos,” Duncan answered. “Maddeningly enigmatic at times, yes. Stubborn and bad tempered and occasionally much too ruthless for my taste, as well. But always special. Always precious.” Gently, the Highlander turned Methos in his arms, lifting his chin with his hand. “Maybe I can’t understand everything about what it is to be five thousand years old. But I can certainly understand more about your life than the Watchers ever could. I know, for example, just how much strength it has taken for you to keep on living it, and how that makes you extraordinary…”

“Extraordinary.” Methos repeated, hardly able to believe he’d heard correctly. “Yes, that’s me. So extraordinary and strong that I let my Quickening surrender to a ‘mere’ four hundred year-old child. One I wasn’t even seriously trying to Challenge at the time.”

“And is that so bad?” MacLeod’s eyes were moist and brilliant. “Methos, can it really be so bad, belonging to me?”

He moved his fingers along Methos’s chin as he said it, a soft caress that held love and understanding and the promise of a thousand other things Methos simply couldn’t cope with right now. He closed his eyes, pressing the lids shut tight in an insane effort to keep the world away. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I just don’t know.”

And the moment shattered. MacLeod dropped his hand. When Methos opened his eyes again, the Highlander was still standing exactly where he had been…but somehow he was simultaneously much more distant, the closeness that had been between them suddenly vanished into thin air. Methos didn’t know if he was grateful for this or not. “Well, think about it,” MacLeod said tiredly. “If we’re both still alive tomorrow, maybe we can talk about it then.” He moved away, heading for the stairs. “Right now I have to keep the Watchers from killing an old friend.”

“Shapiro said--”

“And you believed him? Methos, don’t be an ass. We both know that the people who put Joe through that mockery of a trial aren’t going to be interested in talking for long. If you think Shapiro wants anything besides Jacob’s blood, you’ve allowed your emotions to cloud your judgment.” The Highlander paused on the bottom stair. “Look, you know me. I will do what I can to avoid bloodshed—do what I can to keep your Watchers alive and well. Maybe there still is some way to salvage this mess without anyone else getting hurt. But even if there is…Methos, when it’s over, you are going to have some tough choices to make. I suggest you take some time to consider them.”

“Oh yes?” Methos inquired, bristling at MacLeod’s admonitory-teacher tone. “And what choices would those be?”

“Whether you choose to accept what you are, or choose to keep hiding.”

“You honestly think there’s an option?” Methos stared. “What do you want me to do, MacLeod? Go to the nearest street corner and announce to the world that I’m a 5,000 year old man who cannot die? Perhaps shoot myself in the head to prove it? It’ll be a toss up whether the government or the funny farm drags me away first!”

“I’m not talking about hiding from mortals, Methos. We all have to do that. It’s just a part of being what we are.” The Highlander shook his head. “No. I was talking about hiding from yourself.”

He left.

***

Methos went back up into the store. He made himself a cup of tea using Don’s old office teapot and hot plate, his hands going through the familiar motions while his brain suffered a complete and utter shutdown. Cars went by, the building creaked as twilight fell and the store’s aging boards and beams cooled—and the much, much more aged man inside simply sat in Don’s squeaky old office chair, holding a rapidly cooling teacup while numbness settled in. The shadows deepened until Methos was sitting in complete and utter darkness, but he didn’t move to replace the tea or even switch on a desk lamp. The darkness was enough.

About a half an hour after full darkness fell, though, the oddest feeling came over him. It was a bit like the prickle of power he felt whenever Mac got too near, but more elusive, under his skin instead of over it. Wordlessly, Methos got to his feet and left the store, breaking into a run as the feeling increased. The cab driver was extremely surprised when he jumped out of the shadows and practically threw himself across the hood, but he let him in and drove him to the left bank without asking questions. Methos tossed a handful of francs in his lap and flew the last few blocks to Les Pomper Funebres, filled with a horrible foreboding. Something wasn’t right wasn’t right wasn’t right…

He felt the Quickening before he saw it, lightning arching ruthlessly up out of the funeral home and splitting the night sky. Every hair on Methos’s body stood up with the electricity, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. He got up again and went on, despite the fact that his teeth tasted of metal and the air had thickened until taking each step was like pushing his way through a wall of foam rubber. An Immortal was dead. Which one, which one? Methos didn’t have to wait long to find out. As he pushed his way into the courtyard outside the funeral home, Duncan MacLeod stumbled into view, his clothes dirty and charred. “Oh, Mac,” Methos whispered as he read Duncan’s expression—the horrified, half-dead look of someone who’s just absorbed the Quickening of a beloved. “Mac, I’m sorry...”

Duncan, half doubled over, lifted his head in disgust. “Sorry?”

He said it with so much scorn that Methos physically took a step backward. He hung his head, knowing he deserved every ounce of disgust the Highlander could heap on him, knowing that *any* words he could say would be an insult in comparison to the pain Mac was in. The pain Methos had helped to cause. In the background, Joe suddenly limped into view, shouting that he hadn’t known Jack was going to kill Galati; his voice got more and more desperate the more obvious it became that Duncan wasn’t listening. “They weren’t supposed to kill him!” Joe ended up yelling, voice echoing impotently in the courtyard. “You’ve got to believe that!”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“It does to me!” Joe shouted, and Methos heard the hurt there, the feeling of betrayal that Duncan wouldn’t listen and believe. God. So much betrayal had taken place tonight. Joe had betrayed Jacob and Duncan, Jack had betrayed Joe, and Methos…perhaps he was the most culpable of all. He knew the Highlander would never forgive him for his part in getting Jacob killed. But had Methos committed an even worse crime? Had he betrayed the basic nature of what he was? Methos heard Duncan growl: “Either way. Whether you really believed, or didn’t. Either way, he’s dead,” before the Highlander disappeared, and Methos couldn’t disagree. Sometimes, intentions didn’t matter. Sometimes results were the only things you could judge.

Joe shouted after Duncan, something about how the killing could be over now, how it had to be over. Methos wasn’t really listening any more. Joe hobbled to his side, demanding that he go after Duncan and stop him; all Methos could do was favor the mortal with a slightly diluted version of the look Duncan had given him when he’d said he was sorry. “Why?” he demanded, infusing the word with all the bitterness and disgust that was in his heart. “What good could it possibly do now?”

“It could keep someone else from getting killed!” Joe answered, face red and sweating. “If Mac goes after Shapiro, the Watchers are going to go after him!”

“And what about you, Joe? Who will you go after?” Silence from the Watcher. Methos shook his head. “I am 5,000 years old,” he said in blank, numb wonder. “And I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Joe, who was about to launch into another tirade about the need to go after Duncan, stopped dead. There was something about that quiet statement of fact that cut right into his heart. “Methos?” he said curiously.

“It’s true.” There it was again, that hopeless shake of the head. “I just helped set up one of my own.”

“Your own?” Joe stared at his former lover. Dear god, had he missed something important somewhere along the line? It suddenly occurred to him that while he knew Mac’s history with Jacob Galati intimately, he’d never thought to ask if Methos knew him too. For all he knew Jacob Galati could have been Methos’s friend as well, or his student. Even his lover. “You...you knew Jacob too?”

“Never saw him before in my life.”

“Then what do you mean, he was one of your own?”

Methos gave him a look of complete disdain. “He was Immortal, Joe,” he spelled out. “Immortal, like me. And I just helped send him to his death.”

Joe shifted uncomfortably. There were torrents of emotion swirling around his former lover, emotions that he couldn’t begin to understand but could feel like a threatening storm. Was he about to lose him to those currents? “Methos, you’ve killed hundreds of Immortals in your time,” he said reasonably, trying to make sense of this. “Perhaps thousands. It’s what Immortals do.”

“Yes! As part of the Game! We don’t betray each other into mortal hands!” Methos spun on Joe, eyes blazing with fury. “If Duncan hadn’t shown up in time, if he hadn’t been physically close enough to give Jacob’s Quickening a home, do you know what would have happened? He would have been lost! Do you have any idea what that means? What the two of us would have been guilty of?”

“I did not know they were going to kill him!”

“You keep telling yourself that, Joe. Maybe you’ll start to believe it,” Methos snapped. “But Duncan was right. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Jacob Galati is dead. None of our intentions are going to put his head back on his shoulders.” Methos sagged. “And I may have finally have been forced to see the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You already know, Joe. You were the one who told *me*. Mortal and Immortal lives don’t mix.” He smiled tightly, bitterly. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s true. The only way we can live together is if we cloak ourselves in lies, if Immortals pretend to be human, and Watchers pretend not to know the secret. We’re matter and antimatter, Joe. If we don’t have lies to keep us apart…” He brought his hands together and them thrust them apart, miming a powerful explosion. “Annihilation.”

“No.” Joe shook his head vigorously. “No, Methos, no. You’re wrong. That’s not what I…” Methos just gave him a sad little smile and walked away, straightening out his coat as he did. “Methos! Methos!” Joe shouted after him. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Away from here,” Methos answered succinctly. “I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. After all, you have more important things to think about.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Watcher/Immortal war that’s about to start,” Methos replied. “MacLeod’s not going to let this go, Joe. He’s going to go somewhere to rest, and regroup…and then there will be one hell of a showdown. If you want your friend Jack to survive it, you had better be there when it happens. After all, you have to protect *your* own.” He turned on his heel and strode off.

“Methos!” Joe shouted after him, unable to believe that these could be the last words he ever spoke to him. “Methos! Methos, stop!”

Methos didn’t stop.

***

The next few hours passed in something of a blur for Joe:

\--going back to Jack’s office, trying to talk to him about the danger he was in, only to end up standing by incredulously while Jack gloated about Jacob’s death…

\--realizing in shock that the stupid son of a bitch was actually proud of what he’d done, actually *wanted* a full scale Watcher/Immortal war. Like Horton, Jack believed the world would be a better place if Immortals no longer roamed free. Unlike Horton, he was too stupid to understand that Immortals really could be dangerous. Jack thought annihilating them all would be easy. Jack thought the Watchers were invincible…

\--seeing Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod burst into the inner sanctum, and watching Jack finally realize that he wasn’t invincible after all. Finding Methos’s handgun in his hand once again, holding it first on MacLeod, then on Jack. Telling Jack that he would kill him…

\--seeing a coffin lid close over Jack’s miraculously still animate body, and hearing Duncan MacLeod pronounce that it was over…

\--and finally seeing the much-too-late Watcher security guards on duty file into the room, standing in silent, motionless numbness as Duncan MacLeod strode by them, out into the air, away from the carnage.

Joe blinked and looked around the room. The assembled Watchers were still staring after MacLeod, hands on their weapons. Joe knew if it was really to be over, if he was going to keep the fragile peace Duncan MacLeod had started when he refused to take Jack Shapiro’s life, he had to do something to capture their attention. It was time for a speech, then. A good speech. A great speech, if at all humanly possible. How to start? With the truth, boy, with the truth. Joe cleared his throat and began. 

“I am not a traitor,” he said. “I’m not going to lie to you: I have committed crimes. I have become friends with more than one Immortal, and I have done things I am not proud of in order to hide that friendship. But listen to me when I say this, and believe.” Joe held up his arm so that the dim light of the display room caught on his tattoo. “I love this organization. I have given my life to this organization. I have never done anything to betray any single one of you in body or in spirit—and if you have any doubts, the proof of that should be the fact that Jack Shapiro is still alive and kicking there in that coffin, even though he’s done more to endanger what we are than I could have done in a million years. If you have any doubts about that, all you need to do is look at yourselves. Look at what you’re holding in your hands. How many of you during your Academy days ever expected “Observe and Record” to involve hunting an Immortal to the death? How many of you ever thought your work would involve carrying a machine gun instead of a notebook?” The words hit home. Joe saw several stricken faces, and something that had been frozen deep inside him started to thaw. Thank god. They weren’t sunk yet. “We have a hard road ahead of us, my friends,” Joe said gently. “We need to undo what has been done—and in order to do that, we’ll have to rediscover what we were meant to be. It won’t be easy. But I know we’re up to the task…”

And Joe talked on, about history, about destiny, about the sacred duty they must now undertake to see to it that the Watchers survived into the next millennia and beyond. Most of it was complete bullshit, but the emotions underneath it were not, and when the tense people around him began to nod their heads in time to his words Joe knew he had them. For the first time in days, he felt himself relax. “Right,” he said. “I’m done blathering. We all know what we have to do; let’s roll up our sleeves and jump in. Oh.” He nodded at the coffin, which had been suspiciously quiet for quite a while. “Somebody let Jack out of that death trap, will ya? There’s work to be done.”

And several miles away, a dark haired man with a haggard face and a long black overcoat flashed a passport with the name “Robert Smith” to the customs inspector. He was passed through without a second look.

**~End Methos and Adam~**


	6. Second Interlude

**Second Interlude**

“Where can I go from your spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” Psalms 139:7

****  
_~Katmandu, Nepal, Early Summer 1996~_  


 

Kashmiri was a beggar, and he was very good at his job. He knew all the small survival skills essential to the beggar’s trade—which nooks along the street retained their heat long after the sun went down, which monasteries served protein meals on which holy days. More to the point, he was a master at reading people. He was very fluent in the language of clothing and hair style and all the other things that people used to advertise their worldly station. All it took was one quick look for him to size up a person’s age, nationality, and yearly income. He was also excellent at reading emotions, because what a man felt in his heart ultimately determined his generosity far more than the number of rupees in his pockets. Kashmiri could sense feelings a mile away, and even on days like today when the sun was shining and his belly was full he hung around the airport to further hone his skills. He settled into his habitual place and watched the crowds go by, studying the faces.

The man with the dark hair and the long black coat made no sense to Kashmiri at all. He was dressed in the clothes of a European businessman, right down to the traditional leather loafers and briefcase. But he didn’t move like a businessman. He walked in a straight forward, almost aggressive way that showed none of the fear Europeans usually displayed being confronted by the third world. He neither avoided nor gave money to the other beggars that clamored around him, and he bartered for a rickshaw without hesitation, apparently as at home as he would have been in Paris or Lisbon. Intrigued, Kashmiri decided to follow him. The stranger was a novelty, and Kashmiri knew that a true master never turned down any opportunity to learn.

The stranger continued to surprise. He didn’t go to a hotel or hostel as Kashmiri had expected. Instead, he went to a small store that was the Nepali equivalent of a pawn shop, the place where impoverished student hikers traded their backpacks and other personal belongings for enough rupees to buy a ticket home. The stranger began to bargain with the proprietor, and over the next fifteen minutes Kashmiri watched a remarkable transformation take place. The briefcase was exchanged for a large used backpack. The dark slacks and finely knit businessman’s sweater were abandoned in favor of a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, the loafers traded for a sturdy pair of American-brand hiking boots. Even the stranger’s expensive looking leather wallet was sacrificed. Kashmiri drew close so he could hear the stranger extol the virtues of the wallet to the rather reluctant shopkeeper, who didn’t think he’d be able to resell it. “It has your initials on it,” the shopkeeper protested. “How many AP’s do you think come through here?”

“It was a gift from a friend,” the stranger said with a shrug. “But the leather is good, hardly worn at all. See?” He held the wallet up to the light, and the shopkeeper gave a reluctant nod. The deal was concluded. The leather wallet was exchanged for a waterproof nylon trekker’s model, and the stranger transferred his money and identification into it before he left. Kashmiri wanted to know why a wealthy European with so many French bills in his possession would need to resort to trading the clothes of his back, so he drew even closer. And then he saw the man’s face.

A shiver went down Kashmiri’s back. Never, not even on the city’s most desperate beggar or most abused whore, had Kashmiri seen a pair of eyes like that. They were old, far too old for the youthful face they were framed by. Worse, they stared out at the world with a brittle defiance that couldn’t even begin to mask their pain. Kashmiri pulled back, awed. *What has he seen? What can he be running from?* he wondered. *What horrors can this world possibly contain that can make a man’s eyes age before his face?* Feeling both fear and a strange kind of pity, Kashmiri dropped back to a more respectful distance. 

The man zigzagged through the rest of the marketplace, purchasing more clothing and tools. By the time the backpack was stocked with enough provisions for a several week trek, Kashmiri knew a lot about him, perhaps even more than the stranger knew about himself. Kashmiri knew that the stranger relied on nobody but himself. He knew that he wanted none of the people he traded with to remember him, and used devious means to ensure it—he was careful to spread his purchases over a wide variety of shops using a wide variety of languages, and Kashmiri was startled to hear that he spoke each language with a different country’s accent, seeming to be German when he spoke Nepali, British when he spoke French. Most of all, Kashmiri knew that the stranger had lost something, something so important that he had also lost a large portion of himself. There was literally nothing in his former life to hold onto, and the way he traded his possessions for studied anonymity showed that he wasn’t planning for a future, either. When Kashmiri heard the stranger arranging to be driven into the mountains and left somewhere where he could precede on foot, Kashmiri nodded to himself. It all made sense. Many people came to the holy mountains when they had nothing left to lose; it was the ideal place to be reborn. Kashmiri said a silent prayer as the man took his seat on the bus and the old vehicle puffed its way down the city street. Hopefully, the gods would watch over him. Hopefully, the mountains would help him find peace. 

Two months later, Kashmiri was working in a different part of the city when he happened to see the stranger again. He was thinner now, wearing clothes that were patched and boots whose soles were nearly worn off with walking. But his walk had lost its aggression, and most importantly, his eyes no longer had that odd look of being too ancient for the young body. Kashmiri smiled a secret smile, and raised his beggar’s cup to the sky. 

Sometimes, even an old beggar man’s prayers were heard and answered.

***

Katmandu. July. Methos returned to the city with new eyes, absorbing the sights and the sounds with a joy that would have surprised him, if he hadn’t experienced it before. His time in the mountains had been well spent. Two months of sleeping under the stars at night and hiking through the Himalayas’ incredible beauty by day had worked wonders. Waking up every morning to the sight of something both older and greater than himself had done a lot to untangle the knots in his soul. After Paris, after Joe, he’d needed to be reminded that there really were things that endured. And that it was still possible to have something make him feel small, but not diminished…

And now he was back in K’du. Methos didn’t know just why he’d been drawn back to the city, or what he was going to do now that he was here. He simply knew that he’d become hungry for the sound and sight of people again, and Katmandu had both in great supply. He slogged through the monsoon-drenched streets effortlessly, moving from hostel to hostel as the mood took him. When the other travelers asked him his plans, he merely shook his head. For once in his life, he had none. He couldn’t make himself stay here, couldn’t make himself find a job or set down other permanent roots, and yet he couldn’t make himself move on. In the end, he took a small tourist’s flat he could pay for week to week and simply settled in.

Waiting for the future to happen as it would.

***

August. Another month had gone by. Methos was bargaining with a market seller for fruit when he heard someone calling “Adam, Adam!” from far away down the street. He ignored it. Adam Pierson was dead. His passport read Robert Smith, and the few people he spoke to regularly all knew him by that name. The stranger had to be calling out for someone else. But then Methos felt a tentative touch on his elbow. “It is you,” said a male voice. “Adam! Where on earth did you come from?”

Methos regarded the short Nepali man curiously, unable to place him. Then suddenly he smiled. “Khadka,” he said warmly. “How are you?” He lowered his voice. “The last I heard, you were retiring from field work to do translation full time. Did I hear right?”

“You did.” Khadka lowered his voice as well. “The news from Paris…perhaps I retired just in time, yes? After all, someone must look after the older histories while the dust settles in the west.” Methos looked away. He had come to Nepal to escape the Watchers, not to be drawn into its politics once again. Khadka must have caught some of his feelings. “But never mind,” he said brightly, clapping a hand to Methos’s shoulder. “Are you here on business or pleasure, Adam?”

*A good question, my friend. Under which category would you put trying to recapture your soul?* “I just needed a bit of vacation, Khadka.”

“Then a vacation you will have. Starting with supper at my house. No, no,” Khadka continued quickly when Methos would have protested. “I insist. You must come and meet my wife, say hello to all the family.”

“You’re married, Khadka?”

The young man’s chest swelled. “For more than year,” he said proudly. “She’s a beautiful girl, expecting our first in just a few months. So you see you must come and meet her, and taste her daal.” Khadka laughed at Methos’s expression. “Why do you look so startled, Adam? It’s been four years after all. Didn’t you expect me to be an old married man by now?”

*No,* Methos thought sadly. *I never do. Time marches on, impossible to stop…and yet I’m always surprised to find that the children I knew are suddenly grown up and married, the young men I drank with suddenly buried in their graves. Why does it never get easier to remember?* “You must allow me some measure of surprise,” he said, pasting on a smile. “Last time I saw you, you were much more interested in dead European languages than you were in the fair sex. Your mother had quite despaired of ever getting you married off. What happened? Did you finally find a girl you could propose to in Latin?”

Khadka laughed. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “Nirmala took her masters at Harvard. She’s an amazing woman, Adam. You two will have so much to talk about.” They started walking through the market together, Khadka caught up in bragging about his bride, until suddenly the young man paused. “And what about you, old friend?” he asked. “I exchange letters with Lindsey at the Great Library in Paris from time to time. She said you’d married, too…an American girl, was it not? Is she here with you?”

Methos winced. “I lost Alexa a few months ago,” he said, and was stunned when he realized that it had, indeed, only been a few months. It felt more like a lifetime. “She had cancer. Inoperable, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Adam.” Khadka looked sad, then nodded to himself. “So that’s why you’re here. Grandmother said you’d be in need of help.”

Methos blinked. “Grandmother?”

“Yes. You remember, you must remember. She took quite a liking to you the last time you were here.” Khadka laughed uneasily. “Grandmother has her little ways, you know. She was just asking about you yesterday, wanting to know when my Western friend who ‘walked with the Ancient Ones’ would be coming back. She said that you needed to be here, and that sooner or later you’d realize it for yourself.” Khadka gave an uncomfortable shrug. “Nirmala and I though she was just rambling. She does that a lot these days. But when I saw you at the market…”

Methos felt cold. “I’m sorry, Khadka,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve just remembered a previous commitment. Please give my regards to your bride and the rest of your family. I just can’t come to dinner tonight…” Methos knew he sounded like he was in a panic, and he was, but he didn’t have time to cover it. He turned to go.

Only to be restrained by a hand on his arm, connected to a body that was clearly not going anywhere. Khadka may have been a small man, but when he dug in his heels it would have taken an act of god to budge him. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’re not going to let Grandmother scare you out of the best daal bhaat tarkaari in K’du, now are you? I can’t let you turn me down now. It would be an unforgivable insult.” Methos swallowed. Khadka’s dark eyes became serious. “You have to come, Adam. You must. Because you never know. Grandmother just might have the answers you’re looking for. And even if she doesn’t, you’ll still be facing your future with a warm meal in your belly. Sound good?”

Methos nodded. He went.

***

It was nice, eating dinner with a family again. Nirmala was not a Watcher herself. But being a brilliant, curious woman who had married into a multi-generational Watcher family she was well in on the secret, and very eager to meet Khadka’s European Watcher friend. Methos found himself warmly welcomed, and the conversation rambled on boisterously in at least four languages. Khadka’s grandmother had nodded warmly in acknowledgement when Methos first greeted her, but she sat silent and slightly apart from the others while the meal was being eaten. Several times Methos felt her eyes on him, looking him over appraisingly, but she didn’t speak until Nirmala had cleared away the dishes. Then she hobbled to Methos and sat directly in front of him, nodding wisely to herself. “You have very sore feet, I think,” she said in clear if very accented English.

Perplexed, Methos looked down at his well-worn hiking boots. Khadka laughed. “It’s an old expression of grandmother’s, Adam,” he explained. “She doesn’t mean you have sore feet literally. She means…well, that you’ve walked a rocky road since we saw you last, that’s all. Had a difficult time.”

“Lost an old friend, lost a young friend, lost a wife, lost a love. Lost yourself, as well,” the old woman chanted in an eerie singsong.

“Grandmother!” Khadka protested.

“It is truth,” the grandmother said serenely. “Go now. I must talk to this unhappy one alone.”

For a moment Khadka looked like he wouldn’t go. Then he nodded and got his feet, leaving the room with many a backward glance. The old woman waited until he was gone before she closed a claw-like hand over Methos’s. “The book,” she said in Nepali. “The story of the priest, your friend. You took it home?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Methos answered. “I took it home.” A sudden memory of Darius, and his delight upon receiving the Chronicle, made Methos’s chest tighten. “It made its rightful owner very happy, before he died.”

“My poor grandson,” the grandmother said. “You have had too many losses, these past few years. Too many parts of yourself taken away. No wonder you are so lost.”

“Grandson?” Methos asked. “Grandmother, you know what I am. You must know that I’m much older than you.”

She made a tsking sound. “What does age matter? When you are lost like a child, you need a grandmother. And I am very happy to claim you as my own.” She held up her hand, allowing the firelight to catch on the withered skin, and smiled a toothy smile. “In many ways, I *am* older than you, although I have only lived a fraction of your years. There are things this old skin knows about life that you will never experience. How to wrinkle. What arthritis is like. And deeper wisdoms that even you can only guess at.” Methos nodded glumly. She patted his hand. “It is good that you came here, Grandson. Good that you followed your instincts and came back to Nepal. You need teaching.”

Methos bit back the bitter laughter that threatened to overflow. “Grandmother,” he said patiently, “I think you’ve gotten a bit confused. I stopped needing a Teacher many, many years ago.”

She swatted him with the back of her hand. “Not a *teacher*,” she said. “I said *teaching*. Not with the sword, although…” she giggled softly, looking at a picture in her mind that Methos couldn’t see. “Although that might come in handy, as well. But no, I meant teaching about life. Specifically, how to find yours again. It seems to have gone astray.” Methos’s mouth dropped open. The old woman cackled. “There is one of your kind living here in Katmandu, on the other side of the city. She is well hidden…very few people know who and what she is. Khadka does not know. Nirmala does not know. The Watchers in Pokhara do not know. Only me.” She smiled beautifully. “And now you, Grandson. Use the knowledge well. I only part with it because you need it so badly.”

Methos stared, startled by this gift of trust. “Do you think…” he asked, and then stopped. The old woman waited patiently while he found the courage to ask what he needed. ‘Do you really think it’s possible to feel like my life belongs to me again, Grandmother? Do you think this teacher can help?”

“If she can’t, nobody else can,” the old woman answered, and when Methos didn’t find this particularly soothing she patted his hand. “At the very least it will be an adventure, Grandson.” And the corners of her eyes crinkled as she laughed. After a few moments of hesitation, Methos joined her.

***

Which was how, less than three days later, Methos found himself re-packing his trusty backpack and taking a crowded city bus to the far side of Katmandu, ending up in a quiet—at least by K’du standards—residential part of the city. Khadka’s grandmother had given him very good directions, but as Methos came within sight of the house he had to wonder if she hadn’t been playing some kind of trick. The house was ordinary enough—almost too ordinary, which was the problem. There was certainly nothing about the place to suggest that a wise Immortal teacher DIDN’T live there, but there was nothing to suggest that one did. Methos walked up the driveway and knocked on the door anyway. “Namaste,” called a feminine voice. “Just a moment.”

Methos frowned. The voice sounded much younger than Khadka’s grandmother had led him to expect. Of course, with Immortals, age was very deceptive…but there was no Immortal in this house. Methos’s senses couldn’t detect a buzz. Perhaps he was in the wrong place. “There’s no hurry,” he called out in Nepali. “I can come back another time.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve come much too far to turn back now,” called the voice, this time speaking English with a youthful American accent. Before Methos could react, the door swung open…revealing the most decidedly un-Nepali features of a young woman, long red hair plaited into two very messy braids. There was a sprinkling of freckles across her small snubbed nose, and a twinkle in her gray eyes that suggested she was used to taking people by surprise. She was wearing a very faded “Star Trek” T-shirt pulled tight across her perky breasts. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she said. “Grab your things and come in.”

Methos frowned. He felt like he had skipped several minutes of the conversation. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I must be in the wrong place. I was looking for…”

“My mother,” the girl answered. “Well, not *literally* my mother, of course. Dura didn’t birth me; that would be impossible. But you already knew that.” She nodded at the bundle on Methos’s back. “I’m so glad you brought your sword. I’ve never seen a 13th century Ivanhoe in person before. Most of Dura’s students preferred Asian or Middle Eastern weapons. ”

Methos apprehensively let his hand creep to where the Ivanhoe’s well-wrapped blade was tucked comfortingly between his backpack and his back. “How did you know what sword I carried?” he said. “Or whether or not it still has the original blade?”

The girl shrugged. “I was cursed at birth with the gift of knowing things,” she said. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it eventually; you’re one of the few who can. Come with me.” And, rather bemused by his own willingness to follow, Methos did.

***

“So. There’s good news, and there’s bad news,” the girl said a few minutes later. She had led Methos around the back of the house to a large, fenced enclosure, bare of any plants but grass and a large bodhi tree spreading its shade over everything. At one end of the yard were half a dozen chickens, clucking merrily in a wire coop set next to a small fire pit. At the other end was a low covered porch built onto the back of the house, where several large, intricately carved wooden trunks were standing. The girl was on her knees in front of one of these, rifling through it as she spoke. “Do you want the bad news first?”

“I suppose I do,” Methos said cautiously, slipping his backpack off his shoulders as he looked around. The large open space could easily have been an Immortal training yard, once upon a time. But if it had, it had been a while since anyone had tended it, and he could see no equipment. His confusion deepened. “What’s the bad news?”

“Dura is dead.” The girl closed the trunk lid with a thump, blowing her messy red bangs out of her eyes before moving on her knees to the next. “She lost her head two months ago.”

“Oh. I see.” Taken aback by the girl’s matter-of-fact tone, Methos sought for something to say. He fell back on a trite Western platitude. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, don’t be. It’s not like it was unexpected,” was the girl’s next surprising statement, as casual as if she was discussing the death of an aged relative who’d been sick for years, not an Immortal with the potential to live forever. She frowned into the trunk, digging deeper inside. “It was her time. All beings, even the Unaging Ones, must eventually surrender themselves back into the flow. Or most of us do, anyway.” The girl tossed Methos an impudent smirk. “You’re a little different, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Methos said politely. The girl’s only response was to broaden her smirk, an expression Methos found very unsettling. “Um,” he said, trying hard not to sound as disconcerted as he felt. “You said there was good news, too.”

“Ah, yes. The good news.” The girl stood up, pulling a sword out of the trunk. And not just any sword, either. It was a gleaming single handed broadsword, very similar to the one Amanda carried. Methos took a cautious step backward, and promptly stumbled over his backpack. He went sprawling onto his ass. “The good news is, Naima--that’s Khadka’s grandmother, in case you didn’t know—has known about Dura’s death from the moment it first happened,” the girl continued as she walked to him across the yard, looking down at him appraisingly. “So that means it was really me she wanted you to see.” She lifted her sword to a ready position. “Defend yourself.”

Methos, still sprawled on the ground, looked up at the girl in complete disbelief. The disbelief didn’t stop him from reaching for his own sword, still bundled and strapped to the back of his backpack. But it did make him protest: “Look, young lady. I don’t know who you think I am, or what Khadka’s grandmother has told you…”

“Naima never told me anything about you. I haven’t seen her since the last time I visited her with Dura. More than a year ago, now.”

“Then how…”

“Don’t you think it’s time you stopped asking questions?” the girl said tauntingly. “No wonder Naima sent you to me for training! If your response to having a sword drawn on you is to simply lay there on the ground babbling, we have a *lot* of work to do.”

“Training?” Methos stared at the girl, from the dimple to the braids to the raised eyebrow of Mr. Spock regarding him with typical Vulcan quizzicalness from her t-shirt. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. And she was unquestionably tiny, the top of her head scarcely coming to his chest, with pale freckled arms the size of pipe cleaners sticking out from her shirtsleeves. None of which would have bothered him for a minute, if the girl had been Immortal. Methos had known plenty of petite women capable of giving him quite a Challenge, if not ultimately taking his head. But a mortal? “*You* are going to train *me*,” he said.

“Yup. Swords and stamina and hopefully a bit of life lessons too,” the girl nodded. “If you’re worried, I should tell you that I lived with Mama Dura for more than five years, and not even a mortal like me can live that long with a master swordswoman without learning a few things. Besides, I have certain other…skills…that will be useful to you. You won’t find your time here boring, I assure you.” She nodded at the Ivanhoe. “Now. Defend yourself.”

A bit startled that he was obeying, Methos yanked the sword free of its wrappings and rolled to his feet, facing the girl. The moment he’d gotten his balance she attacked, moving with a speed and grace that was completely unexpected. Methos parried automatically and fell back—the exchange had taken less than a second, but he already knew he’d severely underestimated her. “That’s better,” the girl said, nodding approvingly as they began to circle each other. “You’re finally starting to take me seriously. What shall I call you?”

“Call me?”

“We are having a hard time following the conversation today, aren’t we?” the girl taunted. Frowning, Methos tried an attack of his own. It wasn’t anything flashy or aggressive, simply a move intended to test this strange girl-child’s reflexes and timing. She evaded him easily. “I know better than to use you true name—even in Nepal, the walls can have ears,” she said. “And I know you’ve been going by Robert Smith, but that’s not really you, is it? It’s a non-you, a passport and a bank account for emergency use only. You don’t even know Robert’s parents’ name, or where he went to school. So who do you want to be?” Her eyes gleamed. “Are you ready to be Adam Pierson again? Or should I come up with something else?”

Methos felt every muscle in his body tense. Perhaps belatedly, he glanced at the girl’s hands, but no. There were no tattoos shadowing the slender wrists. Which just made her even more of a threat. Methos’s eyes narrowed and his back straightened, adding the illusion of several inches of height Adam Pierson had never used. There was a deadly glint to his eyes that few non-Immortals ever saw. “How do you know all this?” he inquired quietly. Deceptively quietly.

The girls’ eyes were compassionate. “Because you’re part of the tide,” she said.

“And just what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means, Old One. It means I know because all of this has happened before, and will happen again. It means I know because you’re part of the flow of history, the tide of what’s supposed to happen.” He glared at her. She smiled softly. “Trust me on this, Methos. This *is* where you are supposed to be.”

And the sound of his true name was the final straw. “I think you’ll find you’re wrong about that,” he said, and attacked. There was a terrible flurry of battle, Methos channeling all his pain and rage into the sword, attacking without mercy—but the girl fought him off again and again. Once she even managed to swat him on the butt with the flat of her sword as they passed, and the amused twinkle in her eyes made him lose it completely. He charged, swung…

Discovered he was overbalanced, decided he didn’t care, put all his overbalanced momentum into what should have been the battle-ending thrust…

…only to have the girl evade him yet again, and worse, gracefully place her foot on EXACTLY the wrong spot on his calf. The touch was gentle, but it was Methos’s undoing. He flailed wildly to recover his balance, which gave the girl the perfect opportunity to follow up with a decidedly un-gentle slug to his solar plexus. All the air in Methos’s lungs whooshed out with an inelegant grunt, and he went backwards, crashing to the ground as his sword flew out of his hand. Wind completely knocked out of him, he lay stunned while the girl retrieved his sword. “I think I’ll call you Johnboy,” she said. “Are you beginning to understand why you need to be here?”

Methos nodded, coughing hideously as he tried to regain his breath. “Good. Welcome to the First Anti-Gravity Sword School of Nepal,” the girl said. “Specialty of the house: turning assumptions upside down. I charge three American dollars a day, and no, don’t worry that you don’t have enough cash on you to pay me now. I know you’ll be more than good for it eventually. Right now all I ask is that you do your share of the cooking and that you gather the eggs every morning. I *hate* gathering eggs. The hens all know that they can’t hide anything from me and they tend to take their frustration out by pecking. Do we have a deal?”

Heart thudding, Methos nodded again. The girl extended a hand to help him up. “Come on inside. I’ll make you some tea.”

***

The furnishings inside the little house were an incredible amalgam of cultures, Nepali tapestries and cushions mixing with antique French furniture mixing with beautiful examples of framed Chinese calligraphy on the walls and the occasional African figurine on a shelf. Everything had a slightly worn look but was spotlessly clean. The kitchen held a small refrigerator and a Western range, luxuries almost unheard of for this part of Katmandu. Methos, limping as his twisted ankle healed itself, sat down on the rickety kitchen chair the girl pointed to. The girl bustled around, producing some chipped Japanese tea cups and an old American-style tin coffee pot, which she filled with water and set on a burner. “Tea in just a few minutes,” she said, and shook her head compassionately. “Poor Johnboy. You really have had a time of it lately, haven’t you? I’d offer you some salve for those bruises, but they’ll be healed by the time I could get it out of the cupboard.”

Much to Methos’s surprise, he no longer felt angry. His rage had been knocked out of him along with his breath. He now just felt tired and very, very confused. “The bruises will be fine,” he said wearily. “But if you have something to salve my ego, I wouldn’t say no.” 

She chuckled. “Nah. Not necessary,” she said. “I haven’t done your psyche any permanent damage--not the real one, anyway. I may have knocked some of the corners off that shell you’ve built around yourself lately, but that’s all for the good.” She patted him on one muddy knee and started rummaging through cupboards, presumably looking for tea. “Don’t worry, it’s not all going to be like this. I had to get you to take me seriously, you see, and you never would have unless I knocked you around a bit first. The rest of your training will be much easier.”

“I do hope so,” Methos said dryly, and was rewarded with another chuckle. He studied the girl. She appeared to have that fine, baby soft style of hair that wouldn’t stay put in a braid no matter what its owner does, and during the fight one of the braids had lost the thong that wrapped it. Now she yanked the other thong off as well, irritably running her fingers through the twists and turns of hair until the whole mass hung loosely over her shoulders. It transformed her considerably, softening all her edges. And while it didn’t make her look older, exactly, at least it finally freed Methos from the impression that he was talking to a fourteen year old who had run away from school to attend a Star Trek convention. “Why are you calling me Johnboy?” he asked.

“So I can say goodnight to you, of course.”

“Of course.” A Walton’s reference. He should have known. “You haven’t told me what I should call you.”

“Cassie,” the girl said absently, still rummaging in the cupboard. “I imagine you’re already getting an idea what that’s short for…” She froze in mid-rummage. “Oh dear. That’s going to be a problem for you, isn’t it.”

“I don’t see why…” Methos began, and then froze in much the same way. Cassie. Short for Cassandra. “You…you’re a seer,” he said.

“Not…precisely.” Cassie said, pulling out of the cupboard with a muslin bag full of tea. “Not the way that word is usually meant, anyway. But that’s a good enough explanation for now.”

“I see.” Methos swallowed, staring down at his hand. “Just how much about me do you know?”

“Um. Everything, I’m afraid.” He raised his eyebrows. For the first time Cassie looked embarrassed. “It’s not my fault. I’m not a prying person by nature. I just…”

“Was cursed at birth with the gift of knowing things,” Methos nodded. “Yes, so you said.” The teapot came to a boil. Cassie removed it and dropped in two pinches of fragrant leaves. “May I ask how your particular gift works?”

“I have problems with my memory,” Cassie said. “It works in the wrong direction.”

Methos’s eyebrows shot sky high. “Are you trying to tell me that you remember the future?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.” Cassie shrugged unhappily. “Most human beings have to live their lives in order to acquire their memories. I do it in reverse. I get the memory of an event first, and only live through it later. Which, believe me, would be bad enough. I know when I’m going to die. I know when I’m going to fall in love, who I’m going to marry, and exactly what sets off the hum-dinger of an argument we’re going to have the morning after the commitment ceremony. I know what I’m going to eat for breakfast on the 11th of April, 2009. There are no surprises in my existence. None at all.” She poured the tea. “All of which would be more than enough to cope with on its own…but no. The fates were not content merely to tuck *my* entire lifetime of memories into my baby’s skull; they also gave me everyone else’s. Every human being who has ever lived or ever will. Past, future and present.” She handed Methos his cup. “So, you see, when I say I know everything about you, I mean that I literally know *everything*. Both from your point of view and that of everyone else you ever met.” Cassie’s soft gray eyes slowly filled with an eerie, mesmerizing light. Methos suddenly discovered that he couldn’t look away. “I know why my legendary namesake’s still stalking the globe looking for your head. I know about Kronos and the Horseman, about your time in the Dark Tong, and about the slaughter at Shapa. Trust me. There isn’t anything you’ve been or done that can take me by surprise.”

Methos’s hands started shaking. “Nothing?” he said.

Cassie nodded, just once. The surreal brightness in her eyes was inescapable, now. A bit of the tea sloshed over out of Methos’s cup onto his fingers. “Then why the hell are you sitting there calmly offering me tea?”

“Because I *also* know about Alexa, Giulia and Carlo, and what you did for Darius in 1470,” Cassie said calmly. “I know *you*, Methos. And I know I’m safer with you than I would be with almost any other man on the face of the earth.”

It was too much. The blood drained out Methos’s fingertips, and the cup fell. Cassie, who had started leaning forward before he dropped it, caught the cup before it could hit the floor. “Relax,” she said. “I know it’s a lot to get used to, but you are safe here. Safe, and known.” She refilled the cup from the pot and wrapped Methos’s fingers around it with every evidence of sympathy. “Drink up—this tea is Mama Dura’s own special blend, good for emotional shocks. We won’t talk any more about this now. When you’re steadier I’ll make you some supper. Then I think it would be best to have an early night, don’t you? We’ll start your training in the morning.”

***

Cassie was true to her word. They spent the rest of the evening saying little, and when they did speak it was of inconsequential subjects any tourist might have talked about: various places where the best chai was served, the never ending city traffic, what festivals would be celebrated soon, how this year’s monsoon compared to the last. Eventually, Cassie showed him to what would be his bedroom and bid him goodnight. The little room was furnished in the same odd mix of cultures as the rest of the house, which wasn’t surprising considering that an Immortal of great age had once lived there. Methos suspected Cassie had changed little, if anything, since her adoptive mother’s death. His room had tatami mat flooring and a traditional Japanese futon covered with an Ohio Star quilt and a number of fluffy feather pillows. It was a surprisingly comfortable combination, but Methos found himself unable to settle. He set the few possessions he still had on the shelves that lined one wall, then quietly wandered through the rest of the house. Cassie was already asleep, sprawled out on the pallet in her own room, snoring heavily. She hadn’t even bothered to close her bedroom door. Methos marveled at the girl’s sense of security, given that she had a strange, sword-carrying man staying in her home. Either she had more surprising defenses about her person, like those he had discovered during their spar, or she really did know him as she said. Methos honestly didn’t know which possibility made him more uncomfortable. He went back to his own room, tossed and turned for a while, then got up and retrieved his Ivanhoe. He felt a bit like a child curling up with its teddy bear, but the moment he had gripped the familiar pommel he felt more secure. He fell asleep with the sword in his hands.

Sleep helped clear up his mind, if not the situation. When he woke, Cassie was still snoring away, so Methos went out into the yard. Remembering what Cassie had said about the eggs, Methos let himself into the rickety coop and quickly slid his hands under the setting hens, coming back with a lay that was really quite impressive. Once back inside the house, he considered cooking the eggs, than decided against it. Cassie hadn’t said anything one way or another, but it was quite possible that she kept the chickens strictly so she could sell the eggs for money, and if so he didn’t want to thoughtlessly scramble her profits. He started cooking up some of the oatmeal he still had in his pack instead, adding a bit of travel-tin-packed cinnamon and brown sugar as he thought about the other conditions Cassie had set. Three dollars a day, she’d said, and told him not to worry that he didn’t have enough cash to pay her now. Methos thought about the fifty dollar American bill he had tucked in his wallet, won just last week from the over-confident college student who was renting the room next door. Very strange—either the girl wasn’t as omniscient as she thought, or she was expecting him to stay for much longer than Methos could imagine. By the time Cassie appeared, yawning and looking at the just-ready oatmeal with a very sweet smile, he’d decided that some judicious questioning was in order. “That smells lovely,” Cassie said. “Thank you.”

“Trekker’s specialty,” Methos said dismissively, and fixed her with a cold hard stare. Now was the time to grill her, while she was still too groggy to lie. “What’s the orbital velocity of the moon?”

Cassie yawned. “It’s 1.03 kilometers per second,” she said. “Don’t you think you should ask me questions that you actually know the answers to yourself if you want to test me?”

He frowned. She did have a point. “What’s the tenth digit of Pi?”

“After the decimal? 5.”

“Beowulf’s sword’s name?”

“Naegling.”

“The Finnish word for water?”

“Vesi.” Methos opened his mouth. “Seventeen,” Cassie answered before he could get the next question out. “And, no, I don’t know the exact day you were born. You were a foundling, like all Immortals, and *nobody* knows where you came from.” Cassie looked thoughtful. “But your foster mother dedicated you to the goddess on the tenth day of the sixth moon of what we would call 3,206 BC…so allowing for the fact that your people used a lunar calendar that started with the first full moon after the autumnal equinox…and the fact that you were already at least a few days old….” She closed her eyes, did some quick mental calculations. “That means you were probably born about the tenth of March by our reckoning. Which makes you a Pisces. I know you wondered.”

“I—” Floored now, Methos came to sit next to the girl. “Not even I know my own birthday. I could never figure it out.”

“I know.”

“You have the lunar cycles for the past 5,000 years in your head?”

“I have *everything* in my head. Libraries of knowledge. Anything that any human being ever thought or discovered.”

“But that makes you…”

“A very strange person. Yes.” Cassie picked up a bowl of oatmeal and sauntered toward the table. Methos did his best to ignore the long expanse of healthy young leg her nightshirt revealed when she sat down. “Look, it’s not all in my mind at the same time. It works pretty much the same way your own memory does. Something has to remind me of something in order for me to think about it, some sight or smell or sound, or else I have to concentrate hard and track the information down in my brain. Most days I pretty much stay focused on the present moment and let all the extraneous information just flow on by. I have to, to stay sane.” She took a bite of oatmeal, and made a grimace Methos hoped had nothing to do with his cooking. “Even so I spent the first twelve years of my life in a catatonic state inside an institution.”

“You did what?” Methos grabbed his own oatmeal and sat down at Cassie’s side. He still had the strange feeling that he’d fallen through Lewis Caroll’s looking glass, but he was beginning to believe the girl’s story. “Where?”

“The US. The great city of Seacouver, strangely enough. How’s that for a coincidence?” She grinned at him cheekily. “I was found as a newborn left on a seat in a shopping mall. Not altogether unlike your young friend Richie Ryan.”

“Not *my* friend,” Methos said under his breath, and Cassie smirked into her bowl. “You really don’t know who left you?”

“No.”

“But…if you know *everything*…”

“My memories are limited to the human, Johnboy. No woman alive in the city of Seacouver at that time remembers giving birth to me; if I had a human mother, she was either too drugged or too insane to be conscious of the event. Likewise, no one—and you’re just going to have to trust me when I say this, because the true scope of what no-one means to me is beyond your understanding—no human being on the face of the planet who has ever lived remembers leaving me at mall.” She sighed. “Which would make me feel very lonely and X-filey, except for the fact that my story is hardly unusual. There are all kinds of unique beings who share my history. Immortals, for example.” She cocked her head to one side. “Nobody remembers giving birth to you, either. Dura was the same way.”

“I—” About ten thousand different questions rose and fell in Methos’s head. He still didn’t know whether or not he believed that Cassie knew what she was talking about. But if she did, oh, if she did... “How many Immortals are alive today? Do you know?”

“Give me a second. I’ll have to count.” Cassie closed here eyes for a second. “Hmmm. There are 9,361 walking around right now that have gone through their First Deaths, about three times as many as are in your Watcher Chronicles. There’s somewhere around 2,600 Pre-Immortals living, too. But quite a few of those will die of natural causes, not violent ones, so not all of them will become Immortal.”

“So many.” Methos sagged, then bolted upright. “Do you know if the Gathering is real? Who will be the One?”

“I’m…not going to tell you that,” Cassie said, after a hesitation during which Methos’s heart started beating wildly. “I do know, but it’s not going to look anything like you think it will, and it won’t play itself out for…for a very long time. Even by *your* standards of long, my friend.” Methos glared at her angrily. She placed an apologetic hand on his arm. “Look, I’m not playing games with you. Very few people can handle knowing their future; there’s a reason why my Immortal namesake has never managed to make herself popular. Human beings just aren’t built to look at their lives from more than one direction. And they certainly aren’t prepared to know the dates of their own deaths. It drives them crazy.”

“Does that mean you know when I’m going to lose my head?”

That odd brilliance he’d seen last night was back in her eyes. “Yes.”

“At the Gathering?” She said nothing. “You’re not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Because you think it would drive me crazy?” He ran anxious hands through his hair, got up and started pacing. “Cassie, that’s not right. I’ve spent a lifetime getting used to the notion that my life could be over at any moment. Knowing an exact date would be…” He heaved a deep, heavy breath. “A relief. I could stop worrying, I could prepare…”

“No, it wouldn’t drive you crazy,” Cassie said softly. “You’re right. There are a number of people it *would* make insane, but you’re not one of them.”

“Then why?”

“Because telling you would be robbing you of a priceless gift.” He made a disbelieving sound. “No, listen to me, Johnboy. I don’t expect you to believe this, but not knowing things—even things like this—is a present you can’t possibly begin to appreciate until it’s gone. I know what it’s like not to have it. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And not because I happen to know your death is going to be particularly horrible or anything like that—it won’t be. Because knowing something like this changes everything, makes you completely different from everyone else in the world, and that’s not the way life is supposed to be for you. I can’t explain it better than that.” Reluctantly, Methos gave a small nod. “Besides,” Cassie continued, with a small smile. “You’re a very curious person. You may think you’d be content to know the answers to just one question, but deep down you’re self-honest enough to know you won’t be. Before you know it, you’ll be trying to trick me out of the questions to just about everything you’re curious about, from the true purpose of DNA to how the pyramids were built…”

“I *know* how the pyramids were built.”

“Yes, of course you do. Sorry. That was a bad example,” Cassie said. “But it’s a good example to illustrate my next point. *You* know how the pyramids were built, but most people alive today do not. So do you go around telling everybody the true story? Even the few who know about your Immortality and would believe you?” Methos shrunk slightly. “No,” Cassie answered for him. “You don’t. You didn’t tell Andino that you heard Joshua Bar Joseph speak, what the Sermon on the Mount was really about. You’ve never told Joe about what really happened the day Julius Caesar was killed. And not because you were afraid of what either of them would think. Because knowing would change them, make them different from everyone else they know, and you didn’t want to be responsible for that. Am I right?”

Reluctantly, Methos nodded. It was true. What one knew about history—inaccurate as it usually was, rewritten over and over again to suit the present day—was an essential part of the way a person related to life and the culture around him. Interfering with that could have long-reaching consequences. “You’re right,” he said, and gave Cassie a small smile. “Does that mean you’re not going to answer any more of my questions?”

“Not many,” Cassie agreed, grinning back. “I don’t have a problem telling you things that you could easily look up for yourself, like most of the questions you asked this morning. Or things that *nobody* else knows that are impossible for you to verify, like the real number of Immortals alive today. But no, I’m not going to tell you anything about your future. Just—” The grin broadened. “Just remember that when I tell you that I think you should do something, it’s probably good advice. Okay?”

“Okay,” Methos agreed. This was quite possibly the weirdest conversation he’d ever had in his life, which was saying quite a lot. But for some reason, he felt more peaceful than he had for a long time. Odd as she was, he found himself liking this strange child. More than that, he was beginning to trust her. “And what’s your advice for this morning, Little Wise One?”

“That’s easy. Eat your oatmeal before it gets cold. We’re going to have a busy day.”

The moment the last bite of oatmeal had been consumed and the dishes cleaned and put away, Cassie told Methos to pick up his sword. She led him back into what had indeed been Dura’s training field in the back yard, home to a broad variety of both mortal and Immortal students. “It’s part of the reason I can still live here, a young woman alone, without any trouble,” Cassie explained. “Dura was mother to far more people than just me. Everyone on this street knew her name, conspired to keep her from harm. She did a lot of healing with her herbs and her wisdom, and she taught many of the local boys the skills that kept them alive when they enlisted in the army. Now that she’s gone, the neighbors still look after me. They don’t understand me, but they do it anyway. Keeping an eye on Mama Du’s odd ‘child’ is just another local tradition.”

“How are they going to feel about a strange man moving in with you, then?”

“Don’t worry about it, Johnboy. They keep an eye on me, but they don’t interfere. And I’ve already spread the word that one of Mama Du’s other ‘children’ would be coming for a visit. When the neighbors do get around to taking a look at you, they’ll welcome you with open arms.” Cassie twinkled at him. “I sort of knew you were coming, you see.”

“Yes. I’m beginning to believe that you really did.” Cassie favored him with a tiny grin, and Methos found himself asking questions that he’d been wondering about all morning. “Cassie, how did you come to Nepal in first place? If you were born in the States…”

“I got here the same way you did. On an airplane. Or rather, a series of airplanes,” Cassie said. “I was fourteen years old.”

“Fourteen? But how…”

“I’m still mildly ashamed of the way I behaved, so don’t spread it around, okay?” Methos nodded solemnly. Cassie sat down on the grass of the training field, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Okay. For the first twelve years of my life, I was in a deep catatonia. It couldn’t have been any other way, really. From birth I had access to knowledge that no child is prepared to have. Worse than that—my brain wasn’t developed enough to understand that I was a *me*, a separate human being. Most kids don’t develop that sense of separation until they’re around two years old. But it took me a lot longer, because to me it felt like all this other stuff that was happening to other people was really happening to *me*. I didn’t know there was a difference between me and them. And I couldn’t understand the difference between past, present, and future either. I just…” She looked more unhappy than Methos had seen her thus far. “It was a constant state of over stimulation with no context to put it in. I was overwhelmed. Too overwhelmed to speak or even move under my own power.”

“That must have been very hard for you.”

“Actually, it was blissful,” Cassie said with a small sigh. “You think I look sad when I talk about it because it was traumatic? You’re wrong, Johnboy. In some ways it was---well, you know what it’s like when you’re actually successful at meditation, and you reach that state where all thought fades and all you are is pure awareness? Don’t lie to me; I know you’ve experienced it before. You spent two whole centuries right here in Nepal seeking it out.” Methos nodded softly, motioned for her to go on. “Well, it was bit like that,” Cassie said. “All I was was knowledge. Not judgment, not emotion, not desire—just knowledge. Sometimes I really wish I could go back.”

“What happened to change you?”

“Puberty,” Cassie said wryly. “About halfway through my twelfth year, adolescence started reshaping my brain—and voila, all of a sudden I understood that I was Cassie, a human girl with only one body.” She chuckled sourly. “My first words were “Fuck Off”—the nurse that was trying to give me a sponge bath nearly wet herself. It—wasn’t an easy transition.”

“No. I imagine it wouldn’t be.” Methos looked at the girl with sympathy, and a new respect. “So how did a twelve year old make it to Nepal?”

“Ah. Well, this is the part I’m not too proud of,” Cassie said. “The moment I could manage coherent speech, I demanded to take some IQ tests and the GED. They didn’t want to let me, but I knew it was the only way to get free, and finally they gave in. I passed of course—even messed up a few questions on purpose so I seemed more realistic, but still qualified as a genius with the knowledge of a high-school grad. Then I…well, I blackmailed the chief psychiatrist on duty into signing my emancipation papers and getting me a passport. He’d had an affair with a patient once, you see, and I…used his guilt over that fact rather unmercifully.” She looked bleak. “I screwed up his head pretty badly. The combination of his guilt and my telling him exactly what his future held pretty much turned everything he thought he knew about the world upside down, and he never recovered. He never will return to private practice. Just as well, maybe; some people shouldn’t be allowed to tiptoe through other people’s minds. But I still regret it.”

Methos was very quiet. “In the grand scheme of things, that isn’t much to regret.”

“No,” Cassie agreed. “And it’s not like I didn’t know what the consequences were going to be before I did it. One of the hard things about remembering the future is that morality kind of goes out the window. You know exactly what you’re going to do, and what will happen as a result—and you know that you’re going to do it anyway, however much you disapprove. Which is another reason why I won’t tell you more about your future than I think is safe, Johnboy. It’s bad enough not being able to change your past. Not being able to change your future is…” She shivered. “Not an experience for the faint of heart.”

“No,” Methos said. “I guess not.” He felt his head filling with all kinds of ideas, concepts he had never before adequately considered. Part of him wanted to protest that the future was NOT already written, that his actions could indeed change the course of time…but he realized that was really only true from one point of view. What if his life was, at Cassie’s seemed to be, all past, immutable and unchanging? How would he cope? The true scope of Cassie’s different-ness and strength suddenly overwhelmed him. She was right. Living with an unchangeable past was quite bad enough. “How do you live?”

“By letting go of judgment,” she said seriously. “By knowing that every human being is lost and confused and even a Hitler believes he has good reason for what he does—I know, I have his memories. Just as I have yours.” Cassie folded her hands in her lap, looking down at them meditatively. “Mostly I manage to hold onto my sanity by seeing the whole world as the marvelous theater that it is, not taking any of it—even the horrific—too seriously. And by focusing on the present moment. Unlike when I was a child, I can now tell the difference between past, present and future. And let me tell you, just being alive in the present has…compensations. A clarity and a sensuality that even my photographic memories can never have. It’s always rewarding, being here now.” She nodded at him. “That’s part of what you’re here to learn.”

Methos gave the girl a weak smile. “And here I thought I was here to punch up my sword fighting.”

“Nah. That’s just the vehicle through which you’re going to learn everything else,” Cassie said. She got to her feet and flipped her hair back over her shoulders, letting it settle with a professional air. “Really, there’s not much I can teach you in that department—you were right, you know. There’s no way a mortal with a scant 5 years of sword fighting experience can beat you. I simply haven’t had the time to develop the reflexes, or the stamina.”

“So how did you succeed in kicking my ass yesterday?”

“I cheated.” She dimpled prettily. “The Gift doesn’t just let me pry into your personal life, you know. It also lets me anticipate your moves. In this case, Mama Du helped me drill the moves to counter you several years back. I’ve been practicing that fight for years.” Methos couldn’t help it: Cassie looked so much like a high school student admitting to having a grown up help with her term paper that he let out a bark of laughter. Cassie laughed too, and when the humor subsided her cheeks were flushed a beautiful pink. “Good,” she said. “You’re starting to relax again. Enough of the serious stuff, okay? Let’s get on to the training.”

“Training’s not serious?”

“Not today. I’m not going to bash you around again this morning—although when we do get back to sparring, you would do well to remember that I’ve had a lot of years to prepare for you. It’s impossible to take me by surprise, Johnboy. But no, the only reason I did that yesterday was…”

“To get me to take you seriously. Yes, I know.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Now that you do, we can resort to less combative methods. Pick up your sword.”

He did so, and Cassie moved behind him, lightly touching him here and there in silent critique of his form. He felt the familiar stirrings of ego as she did so, some deep inner part wondering what this slip of girl could possibly have to teach him. He was forced to let it go. Under Cassie’s careful touch Methos tightened his abdomen and dropped his pelvis, fine-tuned his grip and the angle of his left arm—all subtle things, hardly worth the time it took to mention it, but when Cassie stepped away Methos felt inexplicably stronger. Steadier. “That’s better,” Cassie nodded approvingly. “Feel the change in energy flow?”

He nodded, swinging the sword a few inches, frowning at the new feel. “You’ve been up in your head too long,” Cassie said in answer to his unspoken question. “That’s why this feels strange. You’ve fallen into the trap of thinking that thinking can solve all your problems, been trying to do everything with your mind. That’s why your form has gotten sloppy. You’ve just been going through the motions, not really feeling the movements when you practice. No, it’s not your fault,” she said quickly. “The kind of life you’ve had lately—it would make anybody want to hide in the realm of the intellect. But that’s only a half-existence at best, and it’s not going to work for you anymore, so the first thing we have to do is get you out of your head and back into your body. Renewing you connection with the earth wouldn’t hurt either. So we’re going to spend the morning practicing centering exercises. Here. Watch me.”

She picked up her own sword and began to move through a series of exercises, a softly flowing form that was more dance-like then martial. Methos watched, startled by the way the girlish figure suddenly dropped every tinge of adolescent awkwardness and became grace personified. Her feet moved over the ground with a sureness that vibrated through her entire frame. When she finished she smiled at him, a faint sheen of sweat on her face from the exertion. “There. You see?” she asked. “If you were a normal man, I’d have you practice without the sword first. But you aren’t. You’re Immortal, and your sword needs to be part of you at all times.” She looked sad. “Remembering what it means to be Immortal is another one of the things you need to learn here.”

“Do you really think I’ve forgotten, Cassie?”

“Not with you head, no. But your heart is currently in a state of rebellion.” She touched him lightly on the chest, and Methos flinched. “Go on. Practice the form.”

Aching now in ways he couldn’t begin to express, Methos moved into the beginning stance alongside her, working with her. Cassie was right. He was only going through the motions. While his muscles could mirror her movements with incredible accuracy, none of the peace that quickly flooded though Cassie’s expression came to him. He envied her that, that she could lose herself in the practice with so much ease. As they repeated the form together in what seemed an endless cycle, her breathing gentled and her eyes closed into a blissful state, but Methos only felt more and more out of tune. He kept with it, though, until the sun was high in the sky, at which point Cassie let her hands float down into the final position and reopened her eyes. “That will do for now,” she said. “How do you feel?”

“I feel—“It took him a moment to really identify the feeling. Frustration was in there, but that jagged edge of emotion was only one part of the wave—the major thing he felt was sorrow. “I feel like I have a lot to learn,” he summed up sadly. “When you told me I could owe you for my tuition, I thought I’d caught you out—I have a fifty dollar American bill in my wallet, and at three dollars a day that pays for more than two weeks. I couldn’t imagine being here that long. But…” He sighed. “I’m going to be here for quite a while, aren’t I?”

She nodded. “Long enough,” she said. “Not forever. Just enough to gain the strength you need to reclaim your real life.”

The sadness became almost unbearable. “Are you sure I have a life to reclaim, Cassie?”

“I *know* you have,” she said warmly. “So do you, deep down. Or you would have given up long before you found your way to me.” She patted him on the arm. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”

***

He did stay. For much longer than he would have expected.

The first two weeks went by in a haze of frustration. Every morning, Methos would get up, gather the eggs, and make breakfast. Cassie always woke up and wandered into the kitchen just as he was finishing, no matter what time it was. At first, Methos tried varying his cooking time by more than two hours in an attempt to prove it was just Cassie’s body clock, not her omniscience, which allowed her to wake up so unerringly. Then he even tried preparing a few breakfasts over the fire pit outside to avoid waking her up by sound or smell. It never worked, and eventually Methos gave it up as a lost cause. Cassie really did know what she knew. Trying to catch her out wasn’t worth the effort. 

They’d eat, and then Cassie would lead him into the yard for exercises all allegedly designed “to reconnect him to his inner nature.” Methos had his doubts about this, especially when Cassie had him spend twenty minutes at a time twisted into some impossible yoga pose or other, the Ivanhoe clutched between his palms. He privately thought that the English translation of Adho Mukha Svanasana should be changed from “Downward Facing Dog” to “Downward Facing Idiot” the day Cassie insisted he practice the famous pose with the sword carefully balanced across his buttocks. But for all his inward grousing, Methos had to admit that Cassie never asked him to do anything she didn’t do herself. And *her* inner nature certainly didn’t seem to suffer. She often finished each day’s practice in a much better state than she began, skin glowing with health and eyes radiating good will. It would have been quite inspiring if it wasn’t so damn irritating. “You’re making progress, Johnboy,” she’d say at the end of every session, folding her legs tranquilly into lotus while Methos sprawled exhausted on the grass, moaning and groaning as he tried to force the blood back into his abused limbs. “Keep it up.”

“It doesn’t feel like I’m making progress.”

“I know. Just trust me. You will.”

As two weeks became three and finally four, Methos began to wonder if he ever would reach that illusive state of “connectedness” Cassie was so sure he’d find. It made him grumpy, and several times he considered packing his bags and heading off to greener pastures. Only the sad, sullen knowledge that he really had nothing better to do kept him there, humoring the girl by doing these endless exercises again and again. Then came the morning when, a little more than a month after his arrival, Cassie sauntered into the kitchen before he’d finished cooking. “Right,” she said, yawning as she rubbed her eyes. “Today’s the day, then.”

Methos frowned, egg whisk in hand. “The day for what?”

“The day all our hard work finally begins to pay off,” Cassie answered. “Leave the cooking, Johnboy. I’ll make the breakfast myself, later on. Right now you need to come with me.”

Not bothering to dress, simply tossing a robe over the battered extra-large Next Generation t-shirt she’d worn to bed the night before, Cassie took Methos’s hand. She paused only to grab a small bottle off a kitchen shelf, which she uncorked as they moved out into the yard. When they reached the center of the grassy training field she touched her fingers first to the bottle and then to Methos’s forehead. He smelled something earthy and fragrant, sandalwood and other scents he couldn’t quite place. “Lift up your shirt,” Cassie said. Too confused to object, Methos did. Cassie anointed his abdomen and the small of his back, and then directed him to lift both his bare feet so she could daub the oil on the backs of his ankles. “Right,” she said. “That’ll do. Now begin.”

“Begin what?”

“Your exercises. You know: four rounds of sun salutations, followed by that Warrior pose posture flow we’ve been working on. Don’t forget your sword.” He frowned at her. Cassie sighed and pointed at the field. “Just do it, Johnboy. It’s going to be different today.”

Rather annoyed at being shunted into the yard before he’d eaten, and feeling more like a marinated piece of meat than the solemn spiritual seeker Cassie so clearly expected him to be, Methos grudgingly began. He lifted his arms and arched his back in the traditional opening of the salutation, then folded forward with the sword in hand, feeling all kinds of fool. For god’s sake, what was he doing here? He was a PhD several times over, after all. So what if he’d surrendered his Quickening to a youngster? So what if the organization he’d loved had started taking heads? He could have settled anywhere on the planet, far from both the Watchers and annoying Highland brats. If he had, he could have been doing something meaningful with his days, instead of cowering here, with this impossible adolescent who felt she could dictate his every move. At least, he could be. If he had the strength. If he wasn’t the total coward he knew himself to be… Methos dropped his hands to the earth, one hand touching grass and the other balancing on the pommel of his sword as he moved into the deep lunge that was the foundation for the next series of poses. He arched his back and lifted his eyes to the horizon just as the sun appeared, rising in all its golden glory. And suddenly he froze in his tracks.

Physically, it was like he was sitting in the middle of a dial and the entire world clicked one degree to the left. Visually, it was like moving from Kansas into Oz. Everything blurred for a moment, then clarified; edges became more distinct, depths more deep, colors more brilliant. Methos gawked—and continued into the next step of the form, pulling his foot back in shock when he felt an incredible soft warmth flow up out of the earth. “Oh,” he said, and took another experimental step forward. “*Oh*”. He was aware that his voice had taken on elements of the obscene, sounding more like a man in the middle of an orgasm than a yoga routine, but Cassie just grinned at him knowingly. “Oh,” Methos said a third time, and continued with the salutation—flowing through the rest of the form effortlessly, really feeling it for the first time. He was unsurprised when the final pattern carried him to a spot directly in front of Cassie, who was now sitting cross-legged on the ground, watching him with a very self-satisfied expression. Methos sank to his knees in front of her. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

“You found your feet.”

“I’d lost them?”

“Oh, yes. You certainly had.” Cassie reached around his knees, patting his dirty, grass-stained toes with a knowing hand. “And the worse thing was, you were so far gone that you didn’t even know that you’d lost them. But you’ve got ‘em back, now.” She gave his foot another pat and withdrew her hand. “The whole world looks a bit different now, doesn’t it?”

“It looks—" Methos groped for words. “Solider. More real. *I* feel more real.” He touched the ground beneath him wonderingly. “What on earth was in that oil?”

“What do you think?”

Methos thought. He ran his fingers across the trace of oil still clinging to his abdomen and sniffed them. “I already smelled the sandalwood,” he said musingly. “But there’s something else, isn’t there? Bergamot, maybe. Or—" He noted that Cassie was vibrating with repressed laughter, so much so that she looked about to topple backwards. “And the truth of the matter is that it could have been anything,” he concluded sheepishly. “You knew all along that I was going to make the breakthrough today. That whole thing with the oil was just to make it extra memorable.”

“Got it in one guess,” Cassie laughed. “I thought it would be good psychology if there was *something* different about today. And for the rest of your life, the scent of sandalwood will help you remember what this moment felt like. Y’know.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him knowingly. “Just in case you’re ever tempted to go wandering away from your feet again.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Methos sprawled out on the grass, marveling at how soft the damp green stems felt against his back and hands. It was…incredible. Enlivening. Euphoric. “I feel…”

“Shhh. You don’t have to say. I know,” Cassie said. Methos nodded and stretched out full length, wiggling his toes and fingers in the grass. He felt reborn, newly made, and suddenly his heart was full of a deep welling tenderness for the girl who had helped him become that way. He favored Cassie with his deepest, most genuinely happy grin, the one that crinkled his eyes and rounded his cheeks with pure unconscious joy. Cassie suddenly sucked in her breath. “Oh, my,” she said. 

“What’s wrong?”

She blushed slightly. “Nothing. You’re just…an extraordinarily handsome man when you’re happy, that’s all. This is the first time I’ve really seen it. In the present moment, I mean, outside of my own strange memory.”

Methos’s smile softened. He reached out a hand in invitation, wanting to touch her, to share something of his feelings. She shifted over closer, but instead of taking his hand, Cassie only let her fingers brush lightly over his. “So,” she said, largely to herself. “This is the beginning, then.”

“The beginning of what?”

“The beginning…of your real training,” she said. “This is just the start, you know. Now that you’ve found your feet, once again have your natural chi flowing from the earth into your body, we finally have the energy to really progress. We’ll have to start seriously working on your sword technique, get you in tip top shape for what’s to come...” Methos started playing with her fingers, the silly grin still on his face. “And you aren’t hearing a word I’m saying, are you,” Cassie finished with a small laugh. “Never mind. Let’s take the rest of the day off, shall we? Give you some time to celebrate feeling alive again before we move on. I’ve got errands to do, anyway. You can help.”

The rest of the day slipped by in a dizzy flow of happiness for Methos, one glorious moment following the next like so many perfect pearls on a string. Simple things overwhelmed him, made him giddy with joy—the sweetness of the air, the brightness of the sun. Even the cacophonous clucking of Cassie’s damned chickens took on all the melodious complexity of a symphony at Carnegie Hall. Methos spent an entire half hour sitting amongst the hens in their enclosure, listening to their music and stirring up magical patterns with his finger in a mud puddle. Cassie watched all this with an indulgent smile, not commenting when he spent their entire afternoon walk to deliver medicines humming Hollywood show tunes and dancing seaman’s jigs at her side. She didn’t even say anything when Methos engaged the children at the final house in a cutthroat game of Nepali jacks, played on the soft earth with a pile of small round stones. The kids beat him soundly, but he was too blissed out to care. When Cassie reappeared from talking to the children’s mother, he caught her around the waist and waltzed her around the yard, much to the children’s appreciation and the lady of the house’s amusement. “Your brother is a joyful one,” she called over the children’s applause.

“He’s just having a very good day today,” Cassie called back. Methos guided her into a flamboyant dip. She hung in his arms for a moment, and then gently disentangled herself, landing on the earth with a bump. “Namaste, Lajja. Don’t forget, you need to rub that salve on the baby twice a day.”

“I won’t forget,” the woman promised, and chuckled as Methos gaily fox-trotted Cassie out of the yard. He was startled, but told himself he really shouldn’t have been, when Cassie chuckled aloud, dropped her head to his shoulder, and fell into step with him. They performed a perfect feather step through the alley behind the house, Cassie expertly following Methos’s every move, until they finished with an exuberant natural turn. “Brother?” Methos inquired curiously when he’d caught his breath.

“Don’t worry, it’s an honorary term only,” Cassie said. “Everyone knows we aren’t really related. It’s a Nepali tradition, referring to close friends as if they were family. And Lajja knows our cover story—that you’re another one of Mama Du’s wandering ‘children’. Therefore you must be my brother.”

“I see.” They fell into a more sedate walk. Cassie led Methos through another alleyway, then along a worn footpath that led across all the backyards on their street, a much faster shortcut than going by the main way. “I’ve never had a sister before,” Methos said thoughtfully, as they drew closer to home. “Not even an honorary one.”

“What about Youngest Daughter, when you were in Japan?” Cassie said impishly. “As I recall, taking her on as a sister—and off of her father’s hands—was part of the bargain when you married Oldest Daughter.”

“That cow! She doesn’t deserve the title; sisterly affection was the last thing on her mind. I’m convinced to this day that she was the one who poisoned my noodles, you know. She—" He looked sideways, noted that Cassie was chuckling softly. “You’re teasing me.”

“That’s right. I am.”

“You do that a lot, don’t you.” Another sideways glance, this time taking in Cassie’s flushed, starry-eyed face, and Methos suddenly became mesmerized by the pattern of the freckles scattered across her cheeks. “Cassie? Have you always been this beautiful?”

Cassie stifled a laugh. “Always,” she agreed, perfectly deadpan. “But Johnboy, you need to remember—this morning you spent thirty minutes staring at a mud puddle in my chicken coup, hypnotized by the swirls you stirred up. You’re seeing everything through a pretty unique lens, today.”

“Whoever would have thought that finding my feet would be so important?”

“It’s more than important. It’s everything.”

“Cassie. Will this feeling last?”

“The clarity will. The joy will quiet down eventually. Not because it will ever really go away, because it won’t. But eventually you’ll get used to it, and get distracted by other things. Right now you’re mostly reacting to the novelty of feeling healthy and alive. Which is wonderful, but—it’s also just a start.” Cassie looked at him seriously. “We still have a lot of work to do.”

Methos considered this. “Then I guess I’d better make the most of the moment while it lasts.” He raised his hands, and struck the classic male ballroom pose of invitation, not caring in the least how ridiculous he looked to be doing so in his tattered jeans and sweatshirt. “Care to dance, miss?”

She glided into his arms. They danced all the way home.

***

The training changed after that. The very next day, Cassie started Methos fighting, practicing moves that he hadn’t drilled since the Crusades. After two weeks of this, she gave a tight little nod and began to teach him techniques that were actually *new*-- moves that left Methos breathless and aching but also reeling with the newly discovered sense of his own power. “I’m going to be good by the time I leave here,” he said late one afternoon in October, when the sun was hanging low in the sky. His entire body was sore, and only Immortal healing had kept him from collapsing during the last drill. But the glorious knowledge of newly acquired skills was singing in every muscle, making him feel stronger and more alive than he had since…well, in a very long time. Even that wonderful day when he’d found his feet paled in comparison. “Not just good. Extraordinary.”

“Downright deadly,” Cassie agreed, bending over to retrieve a large throwing ax from the end of the field. She kept insisting that he needed to practice against more weapons than swords. “The drills I put you through today are going to give you an edge very few Immortals will know how to counter.” She straightened, the ax in her arms, and Methos once again saw the unearthly shimmer that always came in her eyes at moments of deep prophecy. “By the time you leave here, you’ll be better than all but three fighters in the world. And you’ll stay that way for a long, long time.”

Methos felt a chill go down his spine. “Which three?” he asked.

“Now, now. You really don’t expect me to give *that* away, do you?”

“No. I don’t suppose I do.” Another question rose up in his heart, a question he wasn’t really sure he should ask. “Cassie…”

“Yes, Johnboy?”

“Do I really have to leave?”

There. He’d finally said it, after weeks of thinking about it and wondering. Cassie, for her part, simply opened one of Mama Du’s many weapons trunks, removing a soft cloth. “Well, that’s an interesting question,” she said lightly, perhaps a bit too lightly. She started polishing the edge of the throwing ax with the cloth. “What’s the matter, Johnboy? Have the charms of my humble house suddenly become too strong to resist? Or have you just become addicted to the local dairy products?”

“No. Gods, no.” Methos shuddered. One of the few interruptions in their training had come when a neighbor, grateful for a healing tea Cassie had made, had dropped off a large quantity of yak butter. “You really don’t want to eat that,” Cassie had warned, but he’d waved her away. He was Immortal, after all. Food poisoning held no fears. Only to discover that for even Immortal healing to work on food poisoning, there had to be actual food involved. This…substance…was like swallowing a pound of concrete. He’d spent several entertaining hours doubled over in Cassie’s bathroom, unable to do anything but wait for the loathsome stuff to pass from his system via the usual process. Cassie, at least, had refrained from saying “I told you so,” and had even slipped him a battered copy of Steven Mitchell’s translation of the Tao Te Ching under the door to read. It hadn’t helped. “Yak butter, spiritual enlightenment, and gastric distress are all going to be inextricably linked in my mind from now on,” Methos said now, and saw Cassie’s carefully hidden smirk. He sobered. “Cassie, the house isn’t all that attractive. But what’s inside it is.”

It was true. Katmandu had many virtues, not the least of which was the distinct lack of other Immortals. Methos had yet to sense so much as a single Presence, and the laudable Nepali habit of placing a temple on every street corner made avoiding Challenges a cinch if he ever did. But it was Cassie herself that was the greatest attraction. In the weeks since he’d found his feet, Methos had started looking at her in a different way: coming to appreciate her serenity and humor, as well as the unique brand of girlish beauty that was Cassie’s alone. What Methos felt for her wasn’t love, exactly…more a steadily deepening sense of affection, more suited to friends than lovers. But he’d certainly had relationships that were founded on less. And he had a feeling that, in a few year’s time, he could wake up one morning and wonder why he hadn’t realized he’d been in love with her all along. “I mean, I could stay,” he said, tongue appallingly clumsy as he tried to sell the point. “Fluent English speakers are always in demand in Katmandu. I could go to work for one of the expatriate bookstores, or find some politician’s kid in need of a tutor. I could even expand your chicken flock, or help you re-start Mama Dura’s self defense school. There’s a lot I could do to contribute.”

Cassie looked momentarily sad. “A lot you could do, indeed,” she agreed. “And if it were up to me, I would be more than happy to let you…but Johnboy, you’re overlooking one thing. Your life isn’t here.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Only because it’s true,” she said. “These months are just an interlude for you. A chance to rest and recover and prepare for what’s to come.” Methos made a frustrated sound, and Cassie raised her eyebrows. “Johnboy,” she said seriously. “Just how brave are you feeling today?”

Methos frowned. “Not nearly as brave as I was before you asked that question,” he said. “Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to like your reasons for wanting to know?”

“Because you are a most perceptive and intuitive man,” Cassie said with a sigh. “But you are also a very courageous one, and it’s time that you looked at some things you’ve been running away from.” She nodded at the Ivanhoe. “Leave the sword. I have something to show you.”

Doubly apprehensive now, Methos followed Cassie to the very edge of the field, where the bodhi tree grew. Cassie sank to her knees in its shade. After an awkward moment, Methos followed suit. “My peculiar memory gives me access to certain skills,” she said without preamble. “It’s a bit like the sword fighting. You must have realized long ago that I was teaching you techniques far beyond my personal experience. I’ve been borrowing from a variety of sword masters, living, dead, and yet to be born.” Methos nodded. He’d guessed as much, although he tried not to think about it too hard. His mind still went unpleasantly wobbly when he did. “What may not be so readily apparent is that I don’t just have scholars and athletes in my memory banks,” Cassie continued in a matter of fact tone. “I have less…conventional types, too. Sages. Mystics. Every psychic and seer who ever was or will ever be. And that means I can perform…what might look like magic, when the occasion arises.” She placed her palm gently against Methos’s chest. “Breath with me, Johnboy. In a moment you’ll see it, and feel it too.”

“See what?”

“The reason you have to go back.”

Methos was skeptical. He was very, very skeptical. But he closed his eyes anyway and breathed with her, filling his lungs with the sweet post-monsoon air. Cassie’s hand felt very small against his chest, soft and warm through the worn cloth of his t-shirt, and he realized afresh just what a small person the girl really was. Really, it was amazing she could lift a sword at all, let alone spar with such skill. Cassie started chanting under her breath. After a moment Methos recognized the syllables as a mantra calling for peace and the blessing of unobstructed sight. Silently, he fell into the chant with her, sounding the mantra in his head as he continued to breathe in time to Cassie’s rhythm. The hand on his chest shook for a moment, and then the soft pressure vanished. Methos opened his eyes, to find Cassie looking at him with great concern. “Bravery, Johnboy,” she murmured. Methos looked down.

Part of his chest was missing.

He saw the wound first. It looked like somebody had scooped out his midsection from collar bone to diaphragm; Cassie’s hand appeared to float in mid air, over a bloody chasm. In the next moment Methos *felt* the wound as well…not as pain, but as emptiness. A deep, aching, lonely kind of emptiness, so intense he physically staggered. He fell to his knees, scrabbling at his chest, terror rising when his fingers seemed to pass right through. Instantly, Cassie was kneeling over him with her hands on his shoulders, steadying, comforting. “Shh. Shh, Johnboy,” she said, and only then did he realize he was keening aloud. “It’s not real. Not in the way you normally think of as real, at least. I just let you look through a mystic’s eyes for a minute, and to them metaphor often appears as literal truth. You needed to see what *I* see every time I look at you.”

“*Which is what, exactly?*” Methos gasped.

“A man with a hole where his heart used to be.”

Methos stared at her. Then, quite against his will, a tear appeared. Just a single cold drop that rolled over his frozen face to his chin, then trickled down his neck until it was absorbed by his t-shirt. Cassie watched him for a moment, looking regretful but determined…and then empathy flashed in her eyes, and she held out her arms. “Oh, Johnboy,” she said softly. “Come here.”

Methos obeyed. Cassie pull his torso onto her lap, cradling him like a small child. “Shh, now. It really is all right,” she whispered, small arms wrapping around him tightly. “Or it will be, given enough time.” Methos gulped and swallowed, for the moment completely unsure that anything, anywhere, could ever be all right again. Cassie started stroking his hair. “My poor Johnboy,” she said. “Life has not been kind to you these last few millennia, has it? It’s the loneliness that’s been the worst, I think. The knowing that wherever you go, however many times you start over, you’ll always be a man out of place. Out of time...”

“The world changes, Cassie,” Methos answered brokenly. “So bloody fast. And I try to change with it…but there are always parts of me that can’t quite keep pace. Parts that don’t fit into the current era no matter how hard I try.”

“My poor beloved,” Cassie murmured. “And so you flit from role to role, hiding those parts so well that even you sometimes fail to remember they are there. Darius was right. You’ve adapted to the modern era better than any other Immortal alive, turned hiding in plain sight into an art form. But all you really want is not to have to hide at all. To find someone who can see all of you, and not just see your differences, but cherish them…”

He looked up her curiously. Cassie’s face was serene, but there was a new tension in her frame. Methos became aware of it at the same moment that he became aware of the scent of the silky red hair tickling his face, and the curve of the breast that was pressed against his cheek. “You see me, Cassie,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Cassie answered, continuing to stroke his hair. She looked older somehow, sadness dimming the normal youthful brightness of her face. “I see everything, Johnboy. I know exactly how important and special you really are. And believe me, if I was the one writing this play, I’d keep you here until you knew it, too.” Her hand stilled. “But I’m not the one writing this play, Johnboy. And so I know that it can never be. Because I’m not the first person to have ever seen the real you and fallen in love. I’m not even the first one this decade. That sense of acceptance you’ve been looking for? You already found it once.” Her eyes became very bright. “In the arms of mortal with a heart big enough to embrace the entire world…”

There was a moment of weird disjointedness, like the whole world had skipped a beat. Then Methos felt a sinking certainty. “Joe. You’re talking about Joe.”

“Yes, Johnboy. I’m talking about Joe.”

“Cassie, you’re wrong.” Methos pushed his way out of her lap, faced her with accusing, angry eyes. “Joe doesn’t want me. He told me so, before I left Paris. Mortal and Immortal lives don’t mix…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Cassie rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually believed that, Johnboy. Joe certainly didn’t. He only said it because he couldn’t think of any other way to explain why things had gone so horribly wrong. And he was hurting so badly that he needed some kind of explanation to cling to, even if it was dead wrong.” Methos shook his head wildly. Cassie looked at him, half exasperated, half pitying. “Johnboy,” she said earnestly. “Your Immortality has never, ever been a problem for Joe, and it never, ever will be. Don’t you *remember* why you first fell in love with him? The moment when you knew he was the one?”

Methos stiffened. Against his will a thousand memories of Joe began to flood his mind, memories he’d been trying to suppress ever since he’d left Paris. “No,” Cassie said, and Methos knew she was doing what she rarely did, reading his thoughts directly without waiting for him to vocalize them first. “No, before that. No, not then either. No, Johnboy, it wasn’t the first time he took Young Adam to bed, and it wasn’t the first time you heard him play. It was *weeks* before that, when Joe first took you to that bar along the waterfront. Don’t you remember? You were talking about field assignments…Joe was telling you about the time he’d spent Watching Duncan MacLeod…” Methos’s eyes widened, and Cassie nodded in satisfaction. “Yes. That’s it. It was the moment he looked at you across the table and said that ‘Immortals were people, just like anyone else.’ And that was it for you, the final straw. You already knew Joe was an amazing catch, everything you could possibly want. But when he said that, something inside you realized that if he could feel that way about Duncan MacLeod, he might one day be able to feel that way about you. And you were lost. From that moment on.” Cassie’s voice became very fervent, very strong. “You have to go back, Johnboy. He’s the key to the missing part of your heart. You’re never going to be whole again without him.”

“It’s not that simple, Cassie!”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!” Methos shouted. “No, Cassie, it isn’t. Whatever I feel for Joe, those feelings aren’t returned. He doesn’t love me. He said so, on the bridge in Paris.”

“Oh, Johnboy.” This time, the look Cassie shot him was unadulterated pity. “Joe *never, ever* said that he didn’t love you. He simply said that love alone wasn’t enough. And he happened to be quite right.” Cassie got to her feet. “Here’s what I’m going to do, Johnboy. I’m going to send you away for a little while—an evening should do the trick. Go into the city, take in the sights and sounds. Let your mind go blank for a few hours. Then I want you to come back here and think.” Her eyes became hooded. “I suspect your thoughts will be very illuminating.”

“Cassie…”

“Later, Johnboy. Not now.” He stared at her, feeling more lost and alone than he had in months, and she softened. “Look. You’ve been running from yourself and your memories ever since you left Joe in Paris. And that was good, because you weren’t strong enough to deal with them before. But now you are, so it’s time you stopped running. Follow the pain backward, let yourself remember the very first moment it felt like you heart had been torn in two.” Her eyes flared brightly. “You might be surprised by what you discover if you do.”

“But…”

“Later, Johnboy. Walk first, then think. Then we’ll talk.”

“All right.” Cassie nodded and started to leave. Methos called after her. “Cassie—you said you weren’t the one writing this play.”

She paused in mid step. “No,” she said ruefully. “If I was, I’d arrange a whole lot of things very differently. Why do you ask?”

“Because I wanted to know if you knew who was.”

“Oh. Johnboy, if I knew that—I wouldn’t just be a seer. I’d be a god.” She gave him a tiny smile. “I’ll see you later. Have good thoughts.”

And she turned on her heel and left, leaving Methos alone in the yard.

***

Methos walked. He walked for hours through the streets of Katmandu, letting the bustle of the traffic hijack his senses for just a little while. When he returned to the little house Cassie was snoring loudly, so he made himself some tea and sat down in front of the tiny fire she’d left burning in the living room grate. As he did, he heard a soft mechanical hum from the table in the corner. There was an old fashioned record player sitting there, needle up, a black vinyl record spinning on its surface. Tea in hand, Methos went to the player and tried to read the record’s label. It was impossible. Even if the record hadn’t been spinning, the label was old enough to have faded into illegibility. Methos looked back over his shoulder at Cassie’s bedroom, hearing her snoring continue unabated. He shrugged and dropped the needle into place.

“Oh, my bags are packed  
I’m ready to go  
I’m standing here  
Outside your door  
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye.  
But dawn is breaking—it’s early morn  
The taxi’s waiting, he’s blowing its horn,  
Already I’m so lonesome, I could cry…  
I’m leaving  
On a jet plane  
Don’t know when I’ll be back again  
Oh babe, I hate to go…”

Mary Travers’ lovely voice, expertly backed by Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey’s harmony, sang softly from the player. Methos sank down into a chair, his tea cradled in his hands. Follow the pain, Cassie had said, let himself remember the first moment when it felt like his heart had been torn in two. Well, this song certainly made that easy enough. All it took was two notes of the chorus and suddenly Methos was standing in the airport again, reliving the night he’d left Joe at Les Pomper Funebres. He vividly recalled the way the terminal had buzzed with late night activity while he’d stood in a little island of silence all his own, painfully aware of the two different passports weighing down his coat. Adam Pierson was in one pocket, with all his history, pains and joys. And Robert Smith was in the other, barren of life and love. But carrying the promise of a new beginning... 

The decision had not been an easy one to make. Methos had stood in the terminal for nearly an hour before he hardened his heart and approached the ticket counter with Robert Smith’s identification in hand. He realized now that more than just a name had died in that moment. Part of his heart had crumbled away too, leaving him with the hollowness that had haunted him the whole time he’d been in Nepal . But even then, the feeling had possessed a strange familiarity. He’d been carrying it around, to a lesser degree, for much, much longer. And the record Cassie had left for him carried the key to that memory, too.

Methos let his mind roll back…

***

**_~ Paris , 1994~_ **

“…now the time has come to leave you  
One more time, let me kiss you  
Than close your eyes, I’ll be on my way.  
Dream about the days to come  
When I won’t have to leave alone  
About the time that I won’t have to say…  
I’m leaving  
On a jet plane  
Don’t know when I’ll be back again  
Oh babe, I hate to go…”

Clock radios weren’t usually quite so prophetic, Methos thought bleakly as the music woke him, already regretting that this particular day had to begin at all. It was very early in the morning. The windows were still dark in the well-loved, art-filled Parisian apartment where Young Immortal Adam Pierson and Joe Dawson had spent the last four months living in companionship and love. Methos opened his eyes to see that Joe was already wide awake and gazing back at him from the intimate space of the next pillow. They looked at each other for several long moments, the radio playing away, until Methos finally reached out and hit the alarm button with much more force than was strictly necessary. “So,” he said. “Today’s the day.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“We have to be at the airport in an hour. Your plane leaves at six.”

“Non-stop to Seacouver. Yeah, it sure does.”

They’d looked at each other for a while longer, both thinking deeply. Methos knew there was much that he should say. But he didn’t know how to phrase any of it. And anyway, much of it had already been said: if not in words, then with the desperate touches and kisses they’d showered on each other the night before. It was best, Methos thought, to avoid long discussions when they had so little time; the best plan was to fall back into the realm of action, loving-but-practical. “Want some breakfast?”

Joe shuddered. “God, no,” he said. “My stomach isn’t up for that. All I really want is a shower.” Methos nodded, accepting this with a large amount of sadness. He hated knowing that they’d already shared their last meal together, but of course Joe knew best. Then Joe smiled. “You want to keep me company?”

Methos bolted upright so quickly the whole mattress bounced. “Absolutely,” he said. Joe chuckled warmly. Methos sat up, quickly slipping into a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. “Just let me carry your luggage out to the Volvo first. You know. Just in case we’re pressed for time later on.”

“Can’t imagine how *that* could happen,” Joe’s amused voice called as Methos made his way into the living room, where Joe’s suitcases were already neatly stacked. By the time he got back from loading them into the Volvo, Methos could already hear water running. He hurried to join his lover in the shower.

Damn, but he loved this bathroom, freshly remodeled the moment it had become obvious he and Joe really *could* live side by side without driving each other crazy. Methos had originally wanted to remodel the whole flat. There were too many small flights of stairs and changes in floor level for the place to be truly optimal for a double amputee like Joe. Joe, however, had been incensed at the suggestion that he couldn’t cope, and Methos had been forced to scale back his plans. In the end he’d only redone the master bath, using the perfectly truthful excuse that he’d hated the thing for years, and adding impishly that he wanted to install some luxury touches, like a shower big enough for two. Joe had eventually seen the wisdom in this, and the new shower had rapidly become Methos’s favorite place in the entire apartment. It was beautifully paneled in hand cut stone, with frosted skylights that let in the light and heaters that could turn the place into a mock steam room should the occupants wish to linger after bathing. If Joe had ever noticed that the shower was now completely disability friendly too, easily able to accommodate a wheelchair should Joe ever need it to, he’d kept it to himself. He was now sitting on a bench luxuriating in a warm wet mist, prosthetics removed and tucked into a special nook out of the reach of the water’s spray. Methos quickly slipped out of his own clothes and stepped in behind him. He let the warm water coat him for a moment, then reached for the shampoo and started lathering up Joe’s hair. “Going to miss this,” Methos said softly. Almost too softly to hear.

Joe heard him anyway. “Miss being my shampoo boy and body slave?” he said, braving the suds to open one eye. “Surely not.”

Methos hid a smile. He’d often wondered what Joe would think if he ever told him about the various lifetimes he really had spent as a body slave. Not that Joe gave Methos much opportunity to practice his skills. The mortal was much too independent to let Methos wash his hair or trim his beard every day. But on the rare occasions that Joe allowed himself to be pampered, Methos took full advantage. “Going to miss being with you,” he said now, carefully rinsing the suds out of Joe’s hair. “Want me to tidy up your beard, too?”

“You don’t have to…” came the ritual protest. Methos ignored it as he always did, turning off the water and turning on the heaters while he stepped out to retrieve towel and shaving mug. As always, Joe’s eyes followed his ass as he left, and as always, Methos gave his walk an extra enticing little twist, knowing that by the time he finished tending to Joe’s beard the mortal would be very much in need of other “services”. Methos grinned to himself, then felt the grin fade as he confronted a medicine chest that was nearly half empty—all of Joe’s toiletries were already packed. There was a loneliness in those empty shelves that Methos really didn’t wanted to contemplate just then, so he concentrated on rummaging instead, hoping that they’d forgotten to pack the beard trimming scissors at least. Unfortunately, the best he could find was Joe’s long forgotten and long unused electric trimmer. “Looks like we’re going to have to make do with this,” he said, waving it at Joe. “All the other shaving stuff’s packed. Remind me to put this in your luggage before you leave.”

“Keep it,” Joe said. “You’ve gotten me addicted to doing it the old fashioned way. Besides.” His eyes sought out Methos’s through the steam. “I *will* be coming back, kid. You have to know that.”

“Not going to find some other lover in Seacouver, then?”

The attempt at teasing sounded hollow even to Methos, and Joe actually flinched. “Don’t joke about that,” he said. “Don’t ever joke about that.” Methos nodded and started the little trimmer buzzing. He lingered over the job a lot longer than was needed, making pass after pass over the beloved face, wanting to delay the moment of parting for as long as he could. Joe stayed quiet during the entire process, eyes closed, apparently lost in musings of his own. But when Methos finally finished and turned the appliance off, Joe’s hand was suddenly on his wrist. “You’re going to be careful while I’m gone,” he said. 

“Joe…”

“I mean it. You’re going to stay away from dark alleys and abandoned buildings and all the other standard Immortal hunting grounds. If you feel another Immortal coming, you’ll go the other way, you understand? And you’ll keep looking through the Chronicles for a teacher. I know you haven’t found one yet, but you *will* keep searching. Keep studying. Keep learning.” Joe’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as he looked up into Methos’s face. “If I can’t have you with me in Seacouver, I have to know that you’re doing everything you can to stay safe here. I don’t ever want to get that phone call from Don telling me you’ve lost your head. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Promise me.”

“Oh, Joe.” Methos turned the shower back on. The sudden rain of warm droplets was a perfect cover for his own wet eyes, as well as his inner confusion. In that moment, the temptation to tell Joe the truth was stronger than it had ever been. Methos knew that a handful of sentences would do it. Just a simple “Joe, I have something to tell you. I’m not what you think I am…” and Joe would know he wasn’t an inexperienced youngster after all, but a full-grown Immortal with more than five thousand years of experience at keeping his head on his shoulders. Methos would be able to give Joe the gift of as much peace of mind as it was possible for the beloved of an Immortal to have, and himself the priceless gift of hearing his rightful name. He knelt down in front of his lover, already turning the words over in his mind…

And let them go, hiding his face while the shower water streamed down through his hair. He couldn’t. And not because of Joe—not because knowing the truth would give the mortal another secret to keep in a life that was already much too full of them, even if that was the excuse Methos had used to himself all spring. And not because he honestly expected Joe would be angry at him for lying to him, either. Because at this moment, on this particular day, Joe wouldn’t even stop to think about his deceptions—he’d just wrap Methos in his arms and tell him with that beautiful multi-textured voice that he understood, that Methos no longer had to hide. And Methos couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t stop hiding, even though it was the one thing he craved more than life. And all because it WAS the one thing he craved more than life. Because he was so afraid of losing Joe’s complete love, he was too scared to try to have it… Self loathing for his own spinelessness rose up so strong it almost choked him. Methos could barely get hold of the breath necessary to answer Joe’s question. “I promise,” he said. And let his head fall to his chest, blinded by tears he couldn’t allow himself to shed.

Joe pulled him close, strong arms resting against Methos’s pale damp skin. Then he pulled back. “Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to make you come one more time before I go, that’s why. And because I want to have the taste of you on my tongue all the way to Seacouver.”

Oh. Methos’s body instantly responded, even though his heart was as low as it had ever been. “Should have let me feed you breakfast first, then,” he joked weakly. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to eat something. And you know what airplane food is like…”

“Feed me *you*.”

Joe’s hands urged Methos to his feet. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Methos let the mortal do what he wanted, bending over Joe’s head in a soft C as he braced his arms on the shower wall behind him. *Last time, last time.* The words rang in Methos’s head, and despite the fact that on the surface they seemed unreasonable—there would be lots of visits, and phone calls, and long vacations where they’d see each other again—Methos knew in his heart they were real. Knew that he’d had his chance to tell the truth and had blown it due to his own cowardice, knew that things would never be quite the same again. *Ending…ending…all alone again…* Joe licked and sucked with enthusiastic passion, one hand disappearing into his lap as the bluesman fisted his own need. Methos reached down and gently re-guided the strong hands to his backside, moaning aloud when Joe got the message and started teasing him with one skillful finger. *Not because I want to deny you pleasure, Joe,* he thought as he took more of his weight onto his forearms, bracing against the sensations that made his legs tremble. *Because I want to taste you too before you go…and because I need to have you touch me. Oh god, yes that’s it…don’t worry about lotion or lube, just slip your finger in. I can’t be hurt, not from this, and I’ve got to feel you inside. I’d take your whole hand if you’d give it to me, but one finger is enough…anything you want to give is always enough. Go ahead, Joe…touch me there…oh yes oh god so good oh yes…touch the deepest part of me. It’s the only thing I can give you, since I’m too weak to give you the truth….but I do love you, I love you Joe, and I can have this…for now…now now now…*

He came with a shout of exquisite pain and the simultaneous release from it, losing himself to the sensation totally while Joe gently guided him down to the bench, keeping him from slumping down to the floor. Later, Methos knelt and returned the favor, daring to slip in a few tricks that were not in Young Adam’s repertoire, prolonging Joe’s pleasure until the mortal was literally begging him to let him come, at which point Methos reluctantly let him finish. *Last time, last time.* At the airport he swept Joe into his arms in front of a whole concourse worth of people, for once not caring who saw as he kissed the life out of the man, tasting their combined lingering flavors and the sweet, sweet taste that was Joe’s mouth all by itself. Joe, for the first time since they’d been together, didn’t even put up a token resistance to the public display. He merely kissed back for all he was worth, then mumbled “Goodbye, Adam” and fled, hurrying through the gate. And Methos had pulled his coat tight around him, made his way to the Volvo and gone home.

***

The record had long since finished playing by the time Methos had pulled himself out of the memories, revolving silently on its platform with the needle arm to the side. The fire had burned down into almost nothing, leaving just a single weak blue flame twisting above a mass of coals. Methos looked at it and shivered. A moment later Cassie entered the room, arms full of colorful Nepali wool blanket. She draped the blanket around Methos’s shoulders and sat down opposite him, chin propped expectantly on one delicate hand. After a while, Methos spoke. “I didn’t lose Joe in Paris after all, did I? Not the night Jacob Galati died, anyway.” He looked gloomily into the guttering flame. “I lost him that morning I sent him to Seacouver to open the bar. Without telling him who I really was.”

“Yes,” Cassie agreed softly. “Your relationship really ended that morning, Johnboy. You’ve been hiding from Joe ever since: hiding your past, hiding what happened with MacLeod, even hiding the fact that you remembered him after you visited the Spring. Is it any wonder that Joe told you the two of you didn’t have a future together? How could you, when you didn’t even have a present?” She laid a gentle hand on his knee. “You do know what you have to do now, don’t you?”

Methos nodded. “I have to go back,” he said. “I have to go and tell him…I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. But something. Something…true.” Cassie nodded softly, a tiny smile on her lips. Methos swallowed and looked the seer straight in the eyes. “Cassie, I know you don’t like to answer questions about the future, but you have to tell me this. Is there still a chance that Joe can be happy with me?”

“Every chance in the world,” Cassie answered. “But Johnboy, it’s not going to be easy. Joe may love you, but he’s not an idiot, and you’ve abandoned him twice now. It’s going to take some time for him to trust you again, realize that you’re not going to walk off again the moment things get tough. And you...” She shook her head wearily. “You’ve got some lessons of your own to learn, Johnboy. The world doesn’t tend to give us what we want from others until we can first find it inside ourselves. The path you are on is going to test you again and again, make you confront yourself in ways you never imagined. I almost don’t want to send you back, but…” She trailed off, looking sad, then squared her shoulders resolutely. “But there will be a happy ending at the end of it all, one that’s worth all the pain that came before. So promise me you’ll hang in and not give up, no matter how hard things get. Do you promise?”

Despite himself, Methos found himself smiling wryly. “Trying to change the future, Little Wise One?”

“No. Just…trying to make it easier to bear.” Cassie answered. “Sometimes precognition can be a real bitch, you know. I wish I…but that’s pointless. Just promise me that you’ll remember there really is a reason for everything that happens. And that you won’t lose faith completely until you understand what those reasons are.” Methos nodded softly, a wordless vow. Cassie looked like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Good,” she said brightly. “I have something for you, then. Wait here.” She disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back she was carrying an envelope. “Here. This is for you.”

He opened the envelope, shook out a travel itinerary and a handful of airline tickets. There were many stops, but the ultimate destination was Seacouver. The first leg left later that very morning, and the purchase date was more than six months in the past, before he’d arrived in Nepal at all. “You knew,” he said. “All along. You really did know I’d have to go back.”

“Sometimes precognition has its uses, too.”

“Cassie, I—” Methos stopped, unable to find the words necessary to express what he wanted to say. Instead he got to his feet and stepped in close, waited for her to move away. When she didn’t, just tilted up her head with a fond look in her eyes, he went ahead and kissed her. Not the kiss of a lover, not quite. More the kiss of a friend who knew he could have been a lover, in a different reality, a different life. Cassie made a soft sound of approval, her body melting into his as she curled her arms around him and made it last, silently communicating love and approval and all the unconditional acceptance he’d been so sure he’d never find. Then she pulled away. “Well,” she said contentedly, resting her cheek on his chest. “I’ve only been waiting for *that* for my entire life. Ever since there was a me who knew it would be coming.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Methos felt himself start to grin. “Guess I didn’t take you by surprise then.”

“’Fraid not. I’ll give you an A for effort, though.”

“Only for the effort? I must be slipping.” 

She shook her head. “Oh, no, you’re definitely not slipping,” she said. “But I really think it’s for the best that I don’t prove to you the opposite is true. I have an extremely jealous significant other in my future, you see. Besides, when Joe finally gets around to asking what you were doing with yourself these last six months, you’re going to be very glad not to have more than one kiss on your conscience. Which reminds me—” She frowned softly. “When you get the chance, be sure to ask Joe about your hiking boots. It’s important.”

“My hiking boots?” Methos repeated blankly. “Why?”

“Don’t ask me that. Just do it. Joe will know what I mean.”

“Very well. I’ll ask the first chance I get.” Methos looked at her. “Cassie. Your name isn’t short for what you think it is.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He shook his head solemnly. “It’s not short for Cassandra at all. It’s short for Cassiopeia, instead. ‘She whose words have impact.’ I can’t think of a better way to describe you than that.”

“You honor me.” She put her hands on his shoulders, stood smiling up into his face. “Be on your way now, Methos, Oldest of the Unaging Ones. Go to bed, get a few hours of rest. I’ll wake you in time to pack and get some breakfast before you leave.” She tilted her head to one side. “It has been a true pleasure to be of service to you.”

“I won’t forget you, Cassie.”

“No. You won’t.” She reached up and tousled his hair. “Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

He didn’t question her. Instead, he nodded and went back into the bedroom, packing his clothes before he dropped onto the covers and closed his eyes. It was time to get back to his life.

**~End Second Interlude~**


	7. Methos and Methos

**Methos & Methos**

“I build each one of my days out of hope  
And I give that hope your name.”  
~Ani DiFranco, “Overlap”

  
__  
**~City of Seacouver, late October 1996~**

*Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock KNOCK knock knock.*

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses. I’m coming, I’m coming.” The unmistakable sounds of Milo Davis coming from the unfamiliar duplex stopped abruptly. Methos, standing on the stoop in the pouring Seacouver rain, felt his breath catch as the strange door was unchained and unlatched and finally opened to reveal a very startled Joe Dawson. Joe’s eyes widened incredibly as he took in Methos, standing wet and bedraggled with the forlorn remains of an airline ticket still sticking out of his coat pocket. Before Joe could speak, Methos held up his hand. “I had a speech all planned,” he said.

“You did?” 

“Yes. I spent most of the plane ride here composing it,” Methos answered, nodding. “It was a damn good speech, too. All about where I’ve been for the last few months, and what I’ve learned about myself, and just how many of my daily breaths were taken while I was thinking about you. How I went over and over what you said on the bridge in Paris, and how a friend of mine helped me to see that you were absolutely right: love alone isn’t enough. And how I thought about all the things I could offer you in addition, but....” Methos stopped, staring at Joe’s beloved, tired looking face, and somehow his gaze got caught on the lush lips surrounded by silver beard. Methos found himself quite unable to look away. “There’s just one problem,” he finished weakly, staring at Joe’s mouth. “Now that I’m here, I can’t remember a single word.”

“I see.” Joe looked dazed, but he nodded gamely enough. “And just why is that, Methos?”

“Because all I can think about is kissing you, instead.”

“Oh.” There was a long beat while Joe let this sink in. “Oh.” Joe’s vision seemed to develop the same defect that Methos’s had, unable to look away from Methos’s mouth. Methos saw the bearded chin tremble slightly as Joe swallowed, and a pink tongue lick out to nervously moisten dry lips. “Oh,” Joe said a third time. He stepped back, holding the duplex’s screen door open with one arm. “I guess you’d better come in, then.”

Methos went.

***

He didn’t get very far. Methos was less than two feet inside when he felt hands on his shoulders. Two very strong, very steady hands that gently persuaded Methos to stop in place before they crept around to Methos’s front, slipping inside his coat and underneath his sweatshirt, touching the bare skin just above Methos’s waist. The door swung closed behind them. Joe’s hands felt like fire, the touch branding Methos from abdomen to backbone; Methos could hear Joe’s ragged breathing, and his own blood rushing noisily in his ears. Then Joe was urging him to turn around, his fingers delving into Methos’s coat pocket. Methos waited while the musician drew out first his passport and then the remains of his airline ticket. Joe’s lips moved as he read the itinerary on the ticket, the long series of flights and layovers it had taken to get back to Seacouver. “Nepal,” he said. “You went to *Nepal*?”

“Yes.”

“Not New Zealand or Bora Bora or any of the other places you mentioned when we were in Paris. Nepal. Someplace I would never have thought to look for you.”

“Yes.”

“But then, after nearly six months of doing god knows what, you came back here. With a speech in mind.”

“Yes.”

“Which you promptly forgot because all you could think about was kissing me.”

“Yes.”

Joe nodded sagely. “I want to hear that speech, Methos,” he said matter-of-factly. “The moment you remember it again. Because, as I’m sure you’ve realized, we have a hell of a lot of talking to do. A whole bunch of things we need to sort out before this…thing…goes any further.”

Terrible disappointment. Methos bent his head, unhappy but resigned. “Yes.”

“But they can wait.” Joe reached up to touch Methos’s hair, catching a straggling raindrop on his fingertips. Joe brought the raindrop to his mouth, tasted it. His voice grew husky with want. “They can wait. Because right now, all I can think about is how much I want to kiss you, too.”

“Yes!”

Kissing Joe Dawson was unquestionably the most amazing feeling in the world. It always had been, from the moment Adam Pierson had first touched those lips in that rainy, lonely Seacouver street. This time was just like that, only a thousand times more sweet. Everything about the man pressed up against him was so beautifully *familiar*: the scent of his clothes, the way the bristles of his beard whispered over Methos’s cheek, the small ways the luscious lower lip flexed and danced as the kiss deepened. There were so many memories in the way Joe’s practiced hands pushed the coat off Methos’s shoulders to the floor, so much comfort in the way their bodies once again fit together with the ease of a well-known and often-solved family jigsaw puzzle. And perhaps the most familiar thing of all was the gentle-but-firm way Joe led him into the strange bedroom, sat down on the bed, and started undoing his shirt buttons. “Joe?”

“Shh. Talking later,” Joe said. He looked up at Methos, eyes filled with so much naked yearning that words were superfluous. Methos dropped to his knees at Joe’s feet. He made a game try at undoing the rest of Joe’s buttons until it became obvious that his fingers were shaking too badly to be much use. Joe had to take over for him, slipping the shirt off his shoulders and peeling his undershirt off over his head in one smooth movement. The moment Joe’s chest was accessible, Methos fastened his mouth over Joe’s nipple with all the intensity of a starving man, unable to believe that it could really be this easy. This simple. This right. He traced the lines of Joe’s gunshot wounds with his lips, so glad that all he could feel was the stiff smoothness of perfectly healed scars and the swell of new, strong muscle underneath. When Joe put his hands on Methos’s shoulders and wordlessly urged him up Methos went, finding Joe’s mouth and letting the mortal pull them both back onto the bed. Yes. Never mind what he had felt at other times over the years; never mind what he’d fooled himself into thinking he’d found with Alexa, or the illusion of comfort his Quickening had found in MacLeod. This was the real thing. 

This was home.

***

Later, much later, Methos lay sprawled across the bed, Joe’s sweat clinging to his body, the flavor of Joe’s release gloriously strong within his mouth. He stared up at the unfamiliar nooks and crannies of the new ceiling, and could only think of one thing to say. “Wow.”

“You got that right,” Joe said reverently. He was sprawling on the other side of the bed, looking up at the ceiling in much the same dazed, boneless state as Methos. He turned his head, surveyed Methos’s profile with a small frown. “You’re crying,” he observed.

“Am I?” Methos reached up to touch. Yes, there was indeed fresh moisture clinging to his eyelashes, warm and faintly sticky. He brushed it away. “It’s only to be expected, I suppose. It’s been…quite a journey to get here. And—“ He hesitated. “And I was so sure you’d run when you saw it was me, would hide in your living room until I went away. I was so fucking scared you wouldn’t even open your door.”

“Methos, I never manage to shut the door on you completely. Both of us should know that by now. God knows I’ve tried often enough. It just never seems to take.” Joe flipped his body over on the mattress and reached out, running the pad of his thumb over Methos’s cheekbone. Methos swallowed; it was a gesture he knew well from his and Joe’s Adam-Pierson-Is-A-Young-Immortal days. Then, it had always been accompanied with a soft look of love and wonder in the musician’s eyes, expression of Joe’s never-ending amazement that Young Adam really was there, really did exist and want to be with him. Now that wonder was tempered with sadness, but the touch still had the same effect on Methos that it always had. He groaned softly, closing his eyes as a thousand erotic memories rose and fell in his mind. “You still remember,” Methos said.

“Remember what?”

“How to touch me.” Methos shuddered as Joe repeated the caress with all his fingertips, then cupped Methos’s cheek in his hand. “I remember how startled I was by that, when you found me again in Paris. The second time we made love. Do you remember?” Wordlessly, Joe nodded. “It had been seven years since we’d been together,” Methos continued. “A long time, for a mortal. And yet you remembered every single thing you’d learned about me from the first time. Everything I liked…everything I needed…” Methos mirrored Joe’s gesture, letting his fingers frame the bearded face. “It was like I was programmed into your skin, somehow. It made me feel…I don’t think I can tell you how it made me feel. Not because I don’t want to. Because there aren’t any words.”

“I think I know,” Joe said. “You’ve always been programmed into my skin, Methos. Some songs you only have to hear once to know you’ll never get the melody out of your heart.” He planted a kiss on Methos’s forehead, then dropped his hand, looking sad. “It’s not enough, though. What we are in here, with the doors closed and the world pushed outside—it’s not enough for me, Methos. Not enough to build a life on.”

“I know,” Methos agreed, then grinned. “You have to admit that it’s pretty damn good, though. Mind-blowing, even.” Joe made a heartfelt sound of agreement. Methos sobered. “Does this mean we’ve officially ended the ecstatic reunion sex portion of the evening, and are free to move on to that talking we so desperately need to do?”

“Yeah.” Joe said wearily. “Yeah, I think we are.” With a grunt of effort, the bluesman rolled away. Methos watched sympathetically as Joe pulled his tired body into a sitting position against the headboard. It felt odd to have him out of touching range, given the intimacy they’d just shared, but Methos understood the need to be beyond the reach of temptation. Especially since they were both still severely under-clothed, which tended to be a barrier to serious conversation. “Do you want to start or shall I?” Joe asked.

“Why don’t you let me go first,” Methos said. Joe nodded. “You moved.”

A faint smile touched Joe’s lips. “Gee. You noticed?”

“Bit hard to ignore, really. I think the nice immigrant woman who answered the door at your old house was the final clue,” Methos said dryly. “It took us a while to find a language we could both agree on, but eventually I got it through my head that ‘Mr. Daw-sun’ hadn’t lived there for more than two months. Fortunately, she was kind enough to give me your new address. Apparently she still gets the occasional magazine and Blues Association newsletter for you in the mail, and her landlord told her where to forward them.” Methos looked at Joe curiously. “Why’d you move, Joe? Your Dad rebuilt that house for your mom in the sixties. I didn’t think you’d ever have the heart to sell it.”

“I didn’t sell it,” Joe said. “I just turned it over to a property management place to rent out. Figured I’d pick up a bit of extra income and let someone else deal with all the maintenance headaches.”

“So you could still move back someday? If you wanted?” Joe shrugged non-committaly. “Why did you move, then?”

“You want the practical reasons?”

“Were there impractical reasons too?”

“Yeah. There sure were.”

“Then you better tell me both.”

“Okay. Practical reasons first,” Joe said. “I was spending so much time running the bar and putting the Watchers back together that I barely had time to mow the lawn, let alone do all the other upkeep the old place needed. The commute was killing me, too. This duplex is only a few blocks from the bar; I can easily walk to work. And I’ve got a really great landlady. She handles all the dripping faucets and leaky sinks, even picks up my mail when I have to fly to France. There’s a chance I’ll be starting a branch of Joe’s Bar in Paris soon. If I do, she’ll take care of things for me here, even if I’m gone for months at a time. It’s nice.”

“Uh-huh.” Methos could see why Joe had divided up his reasons into the practical and the impractical. Everything Joe had just said made perfect sense—and smacked of being the kind of excuses a man made in order to shore up an emotional decision already settled. “And the real reasons?” 

“I needed a change. I needed—” Joe lifted his hands helplessly. “Oh, hell. I needed to be able to walk through my living room without getting all depressed because everything I looked at reminded me of you.” 

Methos nodded, his suspicions more or less confirmed. Being inside the duplex was an interesting experience, because, for the most part, Joe appeared to have moved his former belongings wholesale. The furniture and artwork Methos knew of old were everywhere Methos looked, rearranged to fit the new space. But there were some notable items missing, and Methos would have had to be particularly dense not to notice that the missing pieces were all connected with him. The vintage Rolling Stones concert poster he’d given Joe for one birthday was gone. So was the Frank Lloyd Wright lamp they’d discovered in the Parisian street market, the one that had cost ten times more to rewire and ship to the States than it had to buy. Methos’s eyes lit on a small curio shelf over Joe’s dresser that held a collection of framed pictures, the same collection that had once graced Joe’s mantle in his old house. One frame was conspicuously absent. “Where’s the picture, Joe?”

“The one of you and Don playing softball, you mean?” Joe asked. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

“Where?”

“Locked in its very own safety deposit box at the bank, along with Brother Andino’s journal and my personal diaries for the last several years. Don’t worry, it’s my own private box, not a Watcher one. The only people in the world who know about it besides me are my attorneys.”

“Your attorneys?”

“McGillan and Laidlaw. I had to tell *somebody* about the box’s existence, make some provision for what to do with it if something happened to me. In the event of my death, the lawyers are under orders to make every attempt possible to deliver the papers inside to Adam Pierson, Benjamin Adams, Robert Smith, or any of their male descendants for a period of fifty years. If the papers aren’t claimed by then, then the lawyers will have them shredded.”

“Shredded?”

“I figured if you hadn’t come back to get them in half a century, it would be best to destroy them. You know. Keep them from falling into the wrong hands.” Joe saw Methos’s startled expression. He spoke rapidly, trying to explain. “McGillan and Laidlaw aren’t Watcher lawyers, Methos. They don’t even know Immortals exist. If someday they do open that box to destroy things, they won’t understand what they see.” Joe spread his hands apologetically. “Leaving the papers to them was the safest thing I could think of, short of destroying them myself, and I just couldn’t make myself do that. I hope you understand.”

“I—” Methos didn’t know what to say. The thoughtfulness of these instructions, when Joe could have willed the important documents to the Watchers after he died—or worse, just handed them over now—took his breath away. “You knew about Robert Smith?”

“It was just a guess,” Joe answered. “The only person that left Charles de Gaulle on the evening of the twenty-fourth of May that even remotely matched your description used a passport with that name.”

“You tried to find me.”

“Yeah. I did. I didn’t get very far. I certainly had no idea you were in Nepal.” Joe slid dejectedly down the bedspread. “Seems this Mr. Smith is a very sneaky character. Changed planes several times, rented cars he never used. I lost his trail somewhere in Tokyo.”

Methos winced. “I was trying to leave the past behind, Joe. Leave myself behind, too.”

“I know. It hurt to admit it to myself, but I knew. That’s why I stopped looking.”

“You went back for Andino’s journal, though.”

“Can you blame me?” Joe asked, eyebrow raised. “The single most important Methosian artifact ever discovered, and you expected me to let it rot in an old nursery? I’d have to have the intellectual curiosity of your average Valley Girl to let that lie.”

“How much have you read?”

“Pretty much every word, now. It took me several months to translate everything. I couldn’t trust anyone else to help me do it, you see.” Joe was silent for a brief moment. Methos waited, bracing himself for what was coming next. There were a number of things he wasn’t particularly proud of in Dino’s journal, and now that Joe had read it he was sure to ask questions Methos didn’t want to answer. But much to Methos’s surprise, Joe’s next words weren’t a question at all. They were just a statement of fact. “He loved you, you know,” Joe said. “Brother Andino. He really loved you.”

“In the beginning, maybe,” Methos answered slowly, not sure where Joe was going with this. “When he was still too young to know better. We…well, you’ve read the journal. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen when we met.”

“Nineteen,” Joe corrected. “You were his first. He wrote that he knew lying with you was a deadly sin, but he couldn’t help but feel he’d found God in the touch of your hands.”

Methos looked away. “Hyperbole. Dino always did have a tendency to be overly dramatic.”

“No. Not hyperbole. I know exactly how he felt.” Joe cleared his throat. “What happened? There was a gap in the entries after he met you, a gap of about ten years. If Andino kept a journal at all during that time, the pages must have been lost before he bound them into the book.”

“Nothing happened. Dino grew up, that’s all.”

“Grew up?”

“Got older, rose through the ranks in both the church and the Watchers, left childish things like boyhood love affairs behind,” Methos explained. “I moved on, went to a monastery in Lombardy, where a group of us were busy re-copying some of the older Chronicles. Dino and I stayed friends, but that was all.”

“No.” Joe was positive. “You were much more than friends, Methos. You might have stopped sleeping together, but he never stopped loving you. It’s in every line he ever wrote.” Methos stayed silent, unwilling to argue. “You told him your real name, didn’t you?” 

“No,” Methos denied. “I didn’t tell him. He guessed. I just…didn’t tell him he was wrong.”

“Why not?”

“It seemed like the thing to do at a time.” Joe let out a frustrated sigh, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. “All right, all right,” Methos said. “I suppose I felt he deserved it.”

“Because?”

“Because we’d known each other for more than twenty five years at that point, and Dino had known I was Immortal for fifteen of them,” Methos answered. “He discovered it in 1629, when the plague hit Lombardy and I was my monastery’s only survivor. I moved back to Florence after that, set up shop as a carpenter, and Dino never betrayed what he knew. When he told me he’d finally figured out exactly which Immortal I was, it felt…ungrateful to deny it. And I was lonely. I wanted to hear my real name shaped by the lips of a friend.” Methos looked at Joe seriously. “That’s all we were at that point, Joe, just good friends. Nothing more.”

“What happened after you told him?”

“It was…nice for a year or so. Comfortable.” Methos looked down at his bare feet. “Then he saw me take a head. Things were never quite the same after that.”

Joe snorted. “He saw you do more than just take that Immortal’s head, Methos. He saw you butcher him. Cut off his hands and put out his eyes and do god knows what else before you finally let him die.”

Methos shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well,” he said, striving the keep his tone normal. “There was…a history between us that Dino didn’t know about.”

“Tell me. Who was he?”

“His name doesn’t matter now. I doubt you’ll find it in any of the Chronicles. He was a very young Immortal when we first met, only a year or two past his first death. Unfortunately, he had a skill most Immortals take thousands of years to develop: he could tell how old I was just from the feel of my Quickening. And since it was obvious that I didn’t want to fight him—I went out of my way to avoid him several times—he figured I was old and tired and would be an easy mark. A simple way to increase his power.” 

“He Hunted you.” 

“Yes. He Hunted me.” Methos looked grim. “This all happened about ten years before Andino was born. I wasn’t a Watcher then—I was a farmer, married, with a child. Carlo wasn’t mine of course, Giulia was a widow, but I loved him like he was my own. And both Giulia’s parents and several of her siblings and cousins were living with us too; it was the custom, in those days. There was no way I could just pick up and leave. The Immortal Challenged me four or five times, and when I refused to raise a sword against him he killed Giulia, Carlo, and the rest of the family by…well, let’s just say it took the combined atrocities of two world wars to finally replace the way I found their bodies in my nightmares. The Hunter seemed to think that if he destroyed everything I cared about, I’d have no choice but to face him.”

“Did you?”

“No. I ran.” Bitter laugh. “I didn’t want that bastard’s head, Joe. I certainly didn’t want his Quickening inside me. When he found me again sixty years later at Andino’s monastery, I probably would have run then, too. But if I didn’t face him, he said he would slaughter Dino and the rest of the brothers—a threat our past proved wasn’t idle. So I gave him what he wanted. I fought him. Disarmed him in minutes, and then I took my time. Got what satisfaction I could from him before I had to soil my soul with his essence. I figured it was the least he could do for me, given that he’d forced me into carrying his energy for all time…” Methos trailed off, looked at Joe’s carefully impassive face. “You may now run screaming from the room, if you like.”

Joe slowly shook his head. “I’m not going to run,” he said. “You forget, I’ve tiptoed through your memories now, thanks to Kristin’s Quickening. I know *exactly* what you’re capable of.” Methos looked away, ashamed. “I know exactly what you’re capable of,” Joe repeated softly. “And not just in terms of violence and cruelty, either. Methos, Andino wrote that after the lightning died down, you carried him back to the monastery, took him up to bed and tucked him in with a warm drink before you so much as changed your clothes. Is that true?”

Methos closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“And you left the next morning before he could speak to you, but for the next two decades you would wander back through Florence every three or four years. You’d never explain where you’d been, but you’d always bring books and news, and you’d stick around just long enough to solve whatever minor problems were plaguing the place before you disappeared again. And when Andino was sixty years old and sick with his last illness, you were the one who took care of him until he died. Am I right?”

“Yes. You’re right.”

“Is—” Joe suddenly sounded very agitated. “Is that what you have in mind for me? I’m going to see you once or twice a decade for the next twenty or thirty years, and then when the day comes that I’m finally too old and sick to argue with you, you’ll take me out of my nursing home and take care of me until my heart gives out? Is that what you’re planning?” A desperate tremble came into Joe’s voice. “Because I’ll tell you right now: that isn’t good enough for me. I’d rather lose you altogether than have my heart re-broken every few years for the rest of my life.”

Methos heard the tremble. He also saw the vulnerability that was suddenly so apparent on Joe’s face. “That’s not what I want either, Joe,” he said, hardly able to believe the conversation was going in this direction. “Believe me. It never has been. I just…” His throat worked as he tried to get a handle on his turbulent emotions. “You were the one who told me there was no future for us. Back in Paris. On the bridge.”

“Yeah. I know. That was before I spent six months without knowing where the hell you were or if you ever intended to come back,” Joe said bitterly. “It was worse even than that time I had to watch you leave with Alexa, Methos. At least then I had a pretty good idea what damn continent you were on. And that you were being careful to keep your head.” Joe’s hands curled into impotent fists. “You were scared I wasn’t going to open the door? I was so damned scared I was never going to see you again at all. That’s the real reason I moved, Methos. I couldn’t stand to set foot in my house knowing that you’d never visit me there again.” 

“Joe…”

“Shhh. Just be quiet and listen to me.” Joe said. “I figured something out, while you were gone. I’m in love with you. It doesn’t matter how much time I’ve spent trying to argue myself out of it, telling myself it would be easier for both of us if it were otherwise. And it *would* be easier. You have to know that as well as I do. But I’m in love with you anyway, at this deep basic level that doesn’t seem to care about convenience. Maybe it’s instinct. I don’t really know; I’ve never felt it for anybody else. All I know is that when you walk into a room, no matter what name you’re using or how much of a pain in the ass you’re being, I feel whole. Complete.” 

And suddenly Methos felt several suns rise within his soul, warming cold places he hadn’t known he had. *He loves me. He loves me even though it isn’t easy.* Heart full, Methos made a long arm and reached across the bedspread, needing to touch Joe in some way and settling for taking his hand. “I feel the same way,” he said.

“Good.” Joe gave Methos’s hand a quick squeeze, then surrendered it. “Because I want you in my life, Methos. More than that: I want to share *your* life. I want to live in the same apartment, not just the same city. I want your books to fight with my music for shelf space, I want to argue about whether we have eggs or pancakes for breakfast, I want to fall asleep at your side each and every night. And I want everyone in our life to know that we’re a couple. Our friends, the neighbors, our co-workers, Duncan and Richie and Amanda, everyone.” Joe stared across the room, a sad, almost wistful expression on his face. “It won’t be easy, coming out of the closet at my age, and the mortals will all think I’ve robbed the cradle, but…”

Methos stared. “You want to do that?” he said incredulously. “Come out, tell everyone we’re together?”

“Hell, yeah. Of course I do,” Joe said emphatically. “Look, in case you haven’t noticed, the world has changed a lot since we first met. People act differently towards gay people now, they’re much more accepting. And in some ways, this recent hell with the Watchers and Jacob Galati has had a silver lining. We’ve rooted out a lot of bigotry during the reshuffle, exposed a lot of intolerance that was lurking just under the surface. There’s a new team in charge now, and they’re good people, Methos. We can finally come out and still keep our jobs.” Joe leaned forward earnestly. “Methos, things that are forced to grow under the cover of darkness always go rotten in one way or another. In a lot of ways, it’s amazing we lasted as long as we did. Yes. If we’re going to be together, I want the world to know.”

*He wants me. He wants the world to know we’re in love.* “But Joe, if you’re going to spend your life with me, you’ll have to accept some darkness,” Methos said dazedly. “We can’t tell our friends and neighbors about my Immortality. And Adam Pierson is rapidly getting too old for me to play convincingly. If I start plucking my hairline and adding grey to my hair, I might be able to stretch him out for another ten years, but then…”

“Then we’ll move,” Joe said. “Kill Adam Pierson off in a car accident, and then this grieving old fag can shock everyone when he writes his old friends and tells them that he’s moved to Timbuktu with a new bit of stuff half Adam’s age. Or maybe it would be better to kill both of us, start over completely. The second I turn fifty I’ll be eligible for early retirement, and due a hefty bonus--add that to the money I’ve put away over the years and we can go just about anywhere. We’ll buy a house, start a new bar or a bookstore or…Methos, I can play the blues anywhere in the world, and you can get work anywhere there’s a university or a library or a museum. As long as you’re with me, the world’s our oyster. I’d be willing to go anywhere and do anything you wanted.” 

Methos’s eyes grew moist. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Yeah. I guess you could say I have.” Joe’s excitement suddenly vanished. “That’s why I know it won’t work. Not yet, anyhow.” 

Joe settled back against the headboard, arms folded unhappily across his chest. Methos could feel Joe’s whiplash change of mood, and he couldn’t quite follow it. “Why not?” he asked. “It sounds like you have everything planned out, and if we both want to do it…”

“Two reasons,” Joe said gruffly. “First: I love you, but I don’t really know you all that well. I watched you with Alexa, Methos. I saw how you re-created yourself to suit her needs. And I couldn’t help but wonder how much of my Adam Pierson was…not a fake exactly; I know that parts of him had to be close to the real you, or you never would have been able to play him so convincingly. But I’m equally certain that other parts of him were…convenient. And that’s not good enough for me anymore.” He looked Methos straight in the eyes. “If we’re going to be together, I don’t want convenient. I want the real Methos, however unpleasant a bastard he might prove to be. Otherwise I’m always going to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Joe,” Methos said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Yes. I understand. Believe me, ‘the real Methos’ is all I’ve ever wanted to be for you. I—” His voice broke. Joe just looked at him, loving understanding in his eyes, and Methos gathered himself together. “What was the second reason, Joe?”

“Duncan MacLeod.”

Joe said the name with great finality, crossing his arms even more tightly against his chest. To Methos, it was like having a pin stuck in a balloon. “Oh, Joe,” he said, disappointment ringing in every tone. “You can’t. After all this time, after *this*--” he waved a hand at the bed’s rumpled sheets—“you can’t possibly still think that I’m love with him. That I want him over you. Can you?”

“You two *were* lovers, Methos.”

“No.” Methos shook his head. “No. We had sex, that was all. And we had it a grand total of three times. Two of which happened in Paris, before my memory returned. Before I had any idea what the two of us had been…”

“Yes. But the first time happened right here in Seacouver. And there’s still something between you.” Joe forestalled Methos’s protests with a raised hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. It’s true. I saw you in Paris, after I’d been shot. I Watched the two of you together. And let me tell you…any time the two of you got within twenty feet of each other, the unresolved sexual tension in the air was so strong it made Heathcliff and Catherine look like complete amateurs.” Joe shook his head resolutely. “I can’t take you back into my life until I know you won’t run back to him the second you and I have another one of our great mortal/Immortal understandings. I can’t share you with him, Methos. I’m just not built that way.” 

“Joe.” Methos felt small and lost. “Nobody’s asking you to. What’s between me and MacLeod isn’t love. It never was, not really. You don’t understand—”

“Of course I don’t understand,” Joe thundered, cutting Methos off in mid-sentence. “I don’t think I want to, either. Not now.” Methos frowned, hurt by this refusal to let him to explain. Joe sighed. “Look. Whatever happened between the two of you is in the past. I’m willing to let it stay there. I just…in order for that to happen, I need to know that it really *is* past. I need to know that things between you and him are sorted out.”

“And just how would you propose I do that?”

“Go to him. Talk to him. Tell him…I don’t care what you tell him. But something.” Joe fixed Methos with a level gaze. “All I want is to be able to look into your eyes when he’s in the room and know that it’s over between you. Do you think you can give me that?”

“Joe! I can give that to you now. If you’d just let me explain…”

“I already told you that I don’t want explanations. All I want is for it to be over.” Joe looked at the clock. “Let’s see, it’s not quite noon. Mac was going to go boat-shopping this morning. He should be home soon. If you get dressed and leave for the dojo now, you should be able to beat him there.”

“Now?” Methos stared at Joe. “You want me to go see MacLeod *now*?”

“Yes.” Joe nodded. “I really think I do.” Methos made a disbelieving noise. Joe looked at him steadily. “Look, Methos. We have a unique opportunity here, a real chance to start over. For the first time ever, you can really be you and I can be me, no hiding or lying required. I want that. I want you. You don’t know…” The musician’s gaze ran over the lines of Methos’s bare shoulders and chest, making Methos tingle with the sensuality of his scrutiny. Then Joe resolutely squared his shoulders. “But I can’t move forward until this is taken care of. I just can’t.”

Methos nodded slowly. He wished to the very bottom of his soul that Joe would let him explain the reasons why he had slept with MacLeod in the first place, the weird tangle his messed up Quickening had gotten him into. But Joe didn’t want explanations…he wanted a resolution, and in his heart Methos could understand why. This was Methos’s mess, and he had to clean it up. Which he would. Somehow. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose I’d better get moving then. If I want to catch the honorable MacLeod-San before lunch.” He looked at the clock, then down at his sheet-covered body. “I can’t believe you’re throwing me out of bed to go talk to him. I can’t, Joe.”

Joe gave him a weak smile. “If it helps, I can barely believe it myself,” he said. “I’ll be cursing myself for an idiot the moment you walk out that door. If it wasn’t—” Joe stumbled over the word, and Methos saw the longing written all over the mortal’s face, a yearning that mirrored the thirst in Methos’s own soul. “If it wasn’t that I wanted…I want…”

“Something better than just the two of us here, alone in this room, with the rest of the world pushed outside,” Methos quoted with a sigh. “I know. I understand.” There was a heavy moment as they looked into each other’s eyes, a moment of asking and wanting and reluctant, resolute denial. At last Methos broke the gaze. “We’ll get there, Joe. We will.”

“You think?”

“I know. I have it on high authority that the two of us are due a happy ending. It may take a little while to show up, but we’ll get there. And then all of this will be worth it.” Reluctantly, Methos got out of bed and started collecting his scattered clothes. “Do me one favor?” 

“What?”

“Make me some coffee before I go? The last sleep I had was a half hour doze in an airport chair in Athens. And even Immortals are subject to jetlag.” 

“Really? I’d always wondered about that.” Joe smiled softly. “The things you learn when you’re in love with an Immortal. Mind if I put that in the Chronicles?”

Methos grinned. *In love with an Immortal,* he thought ecstatically. *Of course you can put that little detail down for posterity, Joe. At the moment if you asked me to go skydiving without a parachute I’d probably say yes.* “Be my guest.” 

Joe nodded and got to his feet, wrapping his body in a robe. It was a new black kimono, not the familiar old blue terry cloth Methos recalled. Methos frowned, then remembered—oh, yes, he’d woken up wearing that robe at MacLeod’s. Joe must have given it to him when he’d been suffering from the effects of Kristin’s Quickening. Had he ever thought to give it back? No, at the time he’d been too far out of it to even realize the robe was Joe’s, and now it was too late. MacLeod had probably donated the robe to charity by now, if he hadn’t burned it outright. The thought dampened Methos’s happy mood, bringing back memories of all the ways Methos had hurt this man, and the time they’d lost—but maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was for the best that they have a fresh start, in robes as well as their relationship. “Joe?”

“Yes, Methos?”

“I’m in love with you, too. You do know that, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Joe gave him a tight little smile. “Now it’s just a matter of figuring out what we do about it.”

Methos nodded. He finished gathering his things and got dressed.

***

Joe Dawson was not often gifted with perfect foresight, but in this case it was twenty-twenty. He did indeed start cursing himself the very moment his front door swung shut behind Methos’s tight, beautiful, gloriously well-formed posterior. “Smooth move, Joe,” he muttered to himself as he stomped around his kitchen, clearing away the coffee things. “The love of your life miraculously shows up on your doorstep after 6 long months apart, and after one admittedly great sexual romp you send him back into the arms of the competition. Just when, exactly, did you lose your mind?”

Unfortunately, Joe already knew the answer. He hadn’t gone crazy. He’d gone sane, instead. 

The last summer had been…inexpressible. Reforming the Watchers. Patching up his rocky relationship with MacLeod. Watching Richie risk his life over and over as he tried to take the head of everything that moved. Any one of those things would have been bad enough, but together they’d made the last half-year one of the most difficult Joe had ever gone through. By the time September had come around, Joe had been worn to a frazzle, barely keeping his head above water. Then Betsy, Joe’s old high school girlfriend, had shown up. And suddenly ‘difficult’ had acquired a whole new meaning. 

Betsy. Christ, Betsy. Joe snorted to himself as he placed the coffee mugs in the sink. MacLeod had gone through an unbelievable song and dance to make Joe take Betsy out on a date; he’d actually thought he was doing Joe a *favor*. It had never occurred to him that Joe might have reasons for avoiding Betsy that went beyond shyness over his missing legs. Mac’s meddling had made it impossible for Joe to escape the situation gracefully. And then when Betsy had admitted to Joe that, without Joe in her life, she’d felt like a part of her had been missing for more than thirty years, something in Joe’s heart had softened—yes, he knew that feeling well, even if he couldn’t return it. He’d taken the lady out to dinner, allowed her to take him to bed. And tried to talk himself into believing that if he couldn’t be with someone he loved, having someone else love him was just as good.

But Betsy had lied to him, about her circumstances if not her feelings. She was married, and returned to her husband after only a week. Joe had felt himself shatter, even though in his heart he knew it wasn’t Betsy he was mourning—simply the loss of distraction her presence had brought. With her gone, it was impossible to deny what his heart really wanted: Methos. The Methos who had gone to such extreme lengths to hide himself that not even the Watchers could find him. The Methos who could easily be gone for the rest of Joe’s natural life, assuming he still had his head at all. Joe’s anger with the Immortal had pretty much evaporated the moment he’d realized Methos had disappeared; after Betsy, the sudden realization that Methos could have lost a Challenge and Joe would never even know drove Joe to the bottle, making him harsh and nasty with his staff. After a week that everyone at Joe’s bar, Joe included, would just as soon forget, Joe had finally understood that he was falling into a pattern just as destructive as Richie’s indiscriminate Challenges. He did his best to stop it. He rented out his house and moved to the duplex in a firm bid to end his depression, and when he was at work he threw himself into the plans for a new Watcher bar in Paris with a passion, just to keep himself from expecting Methos to walk in the door. But nothing seemed to work, and Joe had started wondering if he shouldn’t quit the Watchers and leave Seacouver altogether. Start over fresh. 

Then, the postcard had come. It had been early September, and the leaves were just beginning to fall, crunching merrily under Joe’s cane as he walked to his new home’s tiny mailbox. At first Joe had thought that the battered Star Trek postcard, with its faded picture of Spock and Kirk, had been miss-delivered; after all, he’d just moved in, and very few people knew his new address. Then he turned it over, saw a collection of foreign stamps he couldn’t identify, and read the message: 

Joe Dawson: Stop worrying. Your beloved is alive and well. Don’t try to look for him—he’s not yet ready to be found—but someday soon he will be, and the only way he’s going to find himself is with you. He’ll come back to you then—so you better do some hard thinking about just what you want from him when he does. ALL THE PAIN WILL BE WORTH IT, I promise. Peace.

Joe looked for a signature, but there was none. Even so, the postcard had knocked him flat on his proverbial ass. For several days, Joe had carried the card around in his pocket, taking it out every time he had a spare moment alone. He’d run his fingers over it, try to figure out the writing on the stamps and the identity of the author. Who could have written such a thing? Or known enough to make such a promise? But there were no answers, and Joe finally decided that he had two choices. He could discount the mysterious writer of the card as a cruel practical joker, ignore the message entirely. Or he could take a leap of faith and accept that the author, whoever he might be, really did know what he was talking about and take the card’s advice.

Joe had never had a problem with embracing faith. He leapt.

By the time Methos had shown up on his doorstep, Joe had spent a lot of time in cold hard thought, and he knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted truth. He wanted reality. He wanted the sweet, boring practicalities of building a life as a team. Most of all, he wanted to know that Methos wanted those things too—and wanted them badly enough not to leave Joe for Duncan MacLeod the next time things got tough. And *that* meant that Joe had to send Methos to deal with the Highlander alone. He had to give him a chance to ogle that damnably fine Scottish body and look into those lovely brown eyes and see if the sparks still flew. He had to let Methos discover for himself if spending a mortal lifetime with Joe was really what he wanted, when Duncan could give him so very much more. 

Well, mission accomplished. Now all Joe had to do was trust that the postcard was right, and the pain of seeing Methos walk away yet again would someday be worth it. 

Sometimes, being sane really wasn’t worth the effort.

Joe finished washing the coffee mugs and limped back into his bedroom. He changed the sheets and replaced the phone on the hook, symbolically stating to the universe that his brooding was over and he was once again ready to face the world. Scarily, the phone rang almost the second Joe put it back. Joe jumped and then laughed sheepishly at himself. All right, so he really was ready to re-face the world. He just hadn’t expected to have to re-face it quite so soon. He checked the caller ID box and frowned: what the hell did Richie’s Watcher want with him at this time on a Sunday morning? Joe picked up the phone, and before he could even get a greeting out of his mouth, Williams was speaking, babbling excitedly into Joe’s ear. “Joe? Joe! Thank god you’re there. I was so worried you’d be out—and this is BIG news, man. The biggest! I thought the last couple months were wild enough, but geez! I never thought Richie would stumble into something like this…”

“Whoa,” Joe said, trying to keep his temper under control. His relationship with Richie’s young Watcher had never been close, but during the last six months he’d had to resist strangling Williams several times. Joe had spent Richie’s summer-long descent to the dark side on pins and needles, knowing that Richie was throwing himself into Challenge after Challenge with a carelessness that meant he was looking for death as much as life. Williams, on the other hand, had thought Richie’s killing streak was the coolest thing ever, and had never quite gotten over the fact that “his” Immortal had suddenly become such a surprising force in the game. Williams’ unconsciously insensitive babbling about the surprised looks on Richie’s victims’ faces right before Richie took their heads had made Joe want to scream more than once. “Slow down,” Joe said now. “I take it something interesting has happened?”

“Has it ever! Joe, you wouldn’t believe it! It’s amazing. It’s shocking. *I* can hardly believe it, and I heard it with my own ears…”

“Yeah, well, we’ll never know if I can believe it or not if you never actually get around to telling me,” Joe answered. “Stop, now. Take a couple deep breaths.” Much to Joe’s surprise, Williams actually took his advice. The rapid breathing Joe could hear over the phone slowed and became more even. “Okay, now,” Joe said. “Report.”

“Okay.” Williams still sounded excited, but at least he wasn’t babbling. “Well, I picked up Richie outside his apartment last night at about 7 o’clock as usual. He went out to get something to eat—takeout from that Thai place, you know, the one on Aspen and Cornell? They have the best curries there, and the scent of their chicken satay fills the street for block…”

“Williams! I’m asking for a report. Not a restaurant review.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m getting there.” Another deep breath from the excited Watcher, while Joe mentally counted to ten. “Okay,” Williams repeated. “So, after he eats, Richie gets on his motorcycle and starts riding around, kinda aimlessly, y’know. I think something must have been upsetting him, ‘cause I followed him around in my car for hours, and he cruised through all his old haunts—past the dojo, downtown where the antique shop used to be, even past a couple of old houses where he lived as a foster kid. Then, about 1 am he stops at this storage place—you know, the one he rented for all his stuff right after MacLeod…”

“Yeah, I know.” The one Richie had rented right after the Dark Quickening had made Mac try to take Richie’s head, thereby sending the young Immortal into the destructive tailspin he was only now beginning to pull himself out of. Or at least, Joe had *thought* Richie was pulling himself out of it. This didn’t sound good at all. “What happened then?”

“So Richie goes into his cube, pokes around for a while, comes back out. He’s not carrying anything, so either he didn’t take anything out at all or else it was something really small, something he could hide under his coat…”

“Stevenson!”

“Okay, okay! I’m getting there!” Stevenson exclaimed. “Like I was saying. He goes in, comes out…and just as he’s about to get back on his bike he goes all stiff. He grabs for his sword…”

“There was another Immortal?”

“Yeah. Tall guy, short hair, with kind of a big nose…and he had this PRESENCE about him. A sort of…wisdom. Like he’d been around a while and seen a lot, y’know what I’m saying?”

Joe supposed he did, although he was just about to throw the phone against the wall in frustration. “Get to the point, Williams!” Joe barked. “Did he Challenge Richie?”

“No! No that’s the thing,” Williams said. “The other Immortal—the tall one—he didn’t even carry a sword. He and Richie talked for a while about how this other Immortal was no longer a part of the Game, about how peace between Immortals was really possible if people like Richie would just stop fighting and give it a chance. Then…then this Immortal told Richie his name.” Williams once again broke into a helpless babble. “I tell you Joe, I almost died! It didn’t seem possible. I thought the guy was a myth…”

“God damn it, Williams!” Joe’s patience had come to an end. “I’ve had enough of your babbling. Who was he?”

There was a long silence, and Joe thought they’d gotten cut off. He was just about to jiggle the receiver when Williams spoke, voice hushed with awe. Joe’s forehead furrowed. “What was that, again?”

“I said, he said his name was Methos.”

***

Methos had no idea what he was going to say to MacLeod when he got to the dojo. How on earth could he explain his errand, or even start the conversation? He played several possibilities in his head during the cab ride, most of which amounted to something like this: “Hey Mac! How are you? Yeah, Nepal was great, thanks for asking. Listen, I know this is going to come as a bit of a surprise, but I’m in love with Joe. Yes, really. Have been for years now. The good news is that he’s in love with me too. The bad news is that he knows about our little fling, and it’s driving him crazy. Says that whenever we get together the sexual tension between us makes Catherine and Heathcliff look like pikers, or words to that effect. And he’s right, too…he just doesn’t know that it’s a side-effect of our damned mixed-up Quickenings, not love or hormonally driven lust. Unfortunately, short of me taking your head or you taking mine, I don’t see any way to cure that…. so would you mind moving to Japan or Swaziland or someplace we’re completely unlikely to run into each other for the next, say, fifty or sixty years? I really think it would be best…”

No, that probably wouldn’t work, although Methos would really like to see the expression on MacLeod’s face if he proposed it. The two of them were just going to have to forge some kind of flimsier peace. “MacLeod? Joe and I are in love, and we’re going to live together and be happy. Which means that you and I are going to have to put our pasts behind us and ignore everything that ever happened between us physically. There will be no more fighting, no more inscrutable looks shot across the bar, and especially no more sex conducted in a vain attempt to rebalance the power between us peacefully. From now on that spar in the dojo never happened; we’re just acquaintances, nothing more. It’ll be hard to overcome the dynamics of our Quickenings, but if we work hard at it I think we can both manage to live in denial for the rest of Joe’s natural life. Sound good?” Methos was very sure that to Duncan, it would NOT sound good…living in denial was not the Highlander’s forte. But perhaps after some judicious arguing he would finally see it Methos’s way. Methos sighed a long suffering sigh and braced himself for the argument.

Unfortunately, Duncan was not at home. Methos stood outside in the cold for thirty minutes, shivering and cursing the inaccuracy of Joe’s Watcher intelligence, before he gave up and let himself in the back door ala Amanda. There he paced for another half hour before giving up and helping himself to a beer. By the time he finished it, the combination of jet lag, his annoyance at Duncan for being late, and his dread of the upcoming conversation all made sobriety seem like a less and less desirable state. Methos drank a second beer, then said a mental “to hell with it” and consumed several of its brothers. By the time he’d drunk his way through most of Duncan’s stock, Duncan’s large comfortable bed had started calling his name, reminding him that it had been a hell of a forty eight hours since he’d last slept. Surely, under the circumstances, Duncan couldn’t blame him for taking a little nap? Methos stumbled to the bed and pulled off his boots without bothering to unlace them, noting in a drunken sort of way that the holes in his socks were breeding at a truly alarming rate. He should really do something about that, before Joe noticed and…he was asleep before he even finished the thought.

He woke up a few hours later, shocked into consciousness by the presence of a strong Immortal buzz. MacLeod, of course. That unique presence could have belonged to no one else. As the elevator rumbled upward, Methos was startled to find his heart beating faster and his cheeks most definitely flushed. Good god, what was wrong with him now? His reaction to Duncan’s Quickening had never been this strong before. Had Duncan gotten more powerful while he’d been away? Or had the months apart somehow lowered his immunity? The elevator grate slid up, and suddenly there was MacLeod, looking tall and fit and sexy in the extreme. Methos was terrified by the flare of arousal he felt. *Oh, no no no,* he told his body firmly. *We are not going down that road again. Joe loves me, and Cassie promised us a happy ending. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize it.* “Hey. Grab a beer,” Methos said to cover his panic, needing to make this first meeting seem as normal as possible, needing to act as if Duncan walking in to find Methos sprawled out upon his furniture was a daily occurrence. There was no way he could let MacLeod know he had this effect on him, no way at all. “There’s a cold one in the fridge.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s *my* fridge,” Duncan snapped. He took off his coat and tossed it across the back of his couch with much more force than was necessary, anger hanging around him like a cloud. Unfortunately for Methos, even angry, the Scot was undeniably a stunning sight. Methos’s entire skin began to scream out with a sudden desire to feel those hands upon him, and all Methos could do was lie there, confused by the strength of his body’s need. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Duncan demanded. “I thought you were out wandering the world.”

He gave Methos a disapprovingly glare, eyes traveling over Methos’s body from head to toe in a way that made Methos’s arousal that much worse. So much for normalcy. Methos swallowed hard. “Yeah. Tibet,” he answered, and when Duncan arched an eyebrow, silently but eloquently inquiring why he wasn’t still there, Methos said the first thing that came into his mind. “Yak butter plays hell with the digestion. Besides.” He softened slightly, thinking of Cassie. “I’ve had all the enlightenment I can use.”

“Maybe you should have kept it to yourself.”

Ooookay. They hadn’t just left normalcy behind, then. It was rapidly dwindling to a speck in the rearview mirror as they sped along the highway to Crazyland. Clearly, the Highlander was very upset about something. He even appeared to be getting *more* upset with every minute that passed, which stirred instinctive feelings of fear that Methos found hard to control. What the hell was going on? “Sorry, I must have dozed off,” Methos said, angrily telling his panicking heart that no, Duncan was not about to take his head, at least not without telling him why first. “What is it we’re talking about?”

“All that crock you’re feeding Richie.”

“Right.” Methos nodded just as if he had a clue what *that* meant, which he didn’t. Richie? He hadn’t seen the Immortal brat since…well, it had to be more than a year, since just before he left the US with Alexa. It wasn’t like they were on each other’s Christmas card lists. “And what crock would that be, exactly?”

“Oh, you know.” Duncan waved his hands expressively in the air. “Stop fighting, lay down your sword, give peace a chance—ring a bell?”

“Oh.” Methos’s eyes widened. “*Oh.*” The last vestige of his confusion dissolved as the truth swept over him. *Cassie, Cassie. You did say that I’d have to confront myself in Seacouver in ways I’d never imagined. Of all the horrible puns…* “So *he’s* here, is he?”

Duncan looked confused. It was clearly not the response he’d been expecting. “Who’s here?”

“The other Methos,” Methos said. And got up to find his boots.

***

Badgering the details out of Williams had taken the better part of an hour, but it had been worth it. Joe now knew for certain that the tall, large nosed Immortal who had accosted Richie outside the storage center was NOT the Methos he knew, although that really should have been obvious from the start. “Indefinable presence of wisdom, my ass,” Joe groused to himself as he hung up the phone. “Highly definable presence of sarcasm would be more like it…”

Still, it was worrying, this sudden arrival of another Immortal who was using Methos’s name. Who was this imposter? Could he simply be an unknown newbie who was using the name to improve his street cred? If so, it was as stupid a move as Joe had ever heard of. Surely even the greenest green boy knew that advertising yourself as an Immortal of great age was the equivalent of painting a “Cut Here” line around your neck for every Hunter in the Game. Or could the newcomer be Hunting Methos himself, throwing his name around in hopes of flushing the Eldest out of hiding? Surely it couldn’t be a complete coincidence that both Immortals had shown up in Joe’s town on the very same day. Joe stomped to his computer, booted up, logged in, and started searching through the Chronicles for Immortals that matched the description Williams had given him. It was turning into one hell of a day off.

Late in the afternoon, the phone rang. “It’s me, Joe.”

How, oh how, had Joe ever survived this long without hearing that wonderful voice? Just the sound of those three small words made Joe’s heart ridiculously glad. “Hey, you,” he said warmly, then glanced down at the pile of printouts and faxes he’d spent the last hours accumulating. “Listen. You need to get your ass back here as soon as you can. We’ve got a problem.”

“Another one?”

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good at all. “What do you mean, another one?” Joe demanded.

“Ah.” Methos sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, that’s really what I’m calling about, Joe. It seems young Mr. Ryan ran into an Immortal last night. One who…”

“Is using your name.”

“You *know*?”

“Yeah. Richie’s Watcher was there. He overheard the whole conversation.”

“*Williams* overhead? Oh, great. That’s all we need,” Methos groaned. Joe heard a muffled voice speaking in the background. “Yes, all right, MacLeod, I’m getting there,” Methos said testily, and Joe’s heart skipped a beat. Methos was still with MacLeod? After all these hours? “Listen, Joe,” Methos said urgently. “If Williams overheard that much, then he must have overheard the rest of the speech. This Immortal has an unusual line that he feeds to the young and vulnerable. He’s…”

“Trying to talk Richie out of carrying a sword,” Joe finished. “Yeah, I know that part too.”

“Then you know why Mac’s practically tearing out his hair worrying about the kid…yes, all right, I’m asking him now, MacLeod!” Methos shouted. When he returned to the phone, Joe got the distinct impression that Methos was speaking through gritted teeth. “Joe, I know the bar is closed today, but would you mind opening it for an hour so we can meet there? Somebody—” The word was said with great sarcasm, and Joe could just imagine the venomous look Methos was shooting in MacLeod’s direction—“seems to think young Richard needs a dose of reality, and apparently I’ve been elected to hold the spoon. I’d rather do it at the bar than here.”

Joe hesitated. It sounded like a reasonable enough request, but… “Why my bar?” he hedged.

“Simple. Your bar has become the equivalent of Holy Ground, to this particular branch of Seacouver Immortality at least. Nobody will try to take my head there if this goes wrong,” Methos said sourly. “And unlike most American holy places, yours serves tasty alcohol in a variety of flavors. It’s been a very eventful day already. I have a feeling I’m going to need several stiff drinks before it’s over.” Joe was silent for a long moment. “Joe?”

“What? Oh.” Joe shook himself out of his reverie. “I—so you and MacLeod are still on speaking terms, then?”

“For the moment,” Methos said darkly. “I make no guarantee about the future—all right, MacLeod, all right!” Joe heard an irritated sigh, and imagined Methos running his fingers impatiently through his dark hair. “Joe, I have to go. We’ll be at the bar in twenty minutes, okay? Maybe half an hour, if the traffic’s bad.”

“Half an hour it is.”

Joe dutifully went to the bar, unlocked and set out a large bottle of scotch and four glasses. He was, to put it mildly, worried. What had Duncan said when Methos told him he and Joe were a couple now? Had he been upset? Would he and Joe be able to keep the friendship they’d so carefully re-forged during the last few months? Joe opened the scotch and helped himself to a preliminary round. He needed to fortify himself against the discomfort that was sure to unfold the moment the Highlander walked in.

But there wasn’t any discomfort, at least not that Joe could see. Duncan met Joe with the same friendly greeting he always used. There was no anger, no awkwardness at all. Which Joe might have chalked up to typical Highland chivalry and good manners, but…Mac didn’t seem to be treating Methos any differently, either. In fact, there was a certain calculating look in his eye, a subtle possessiveness in the way he took Methos’s coat, that set off loud warning bells in Joe’s head. Joe wanted to say something. But then Richie arrived, loudly demanding to know what was so important that he had to break his evening date, and there was no opportunity. Joe fell back, using decades of Watcher skill to scrutinize Immortal body language. By the time five minutes had passed, Joe knew the truth.

Methos hadn’t broken it off with Mac at all.

And that was how Joe ended up standing behind his own bar, silently fuming while MacLeod tried to explain to Richie that The Real Methos was not the wise pacifist he’d met the night before. No, the Real Methos was Adam Pierson. Geeky, Watcher-tattoo wearing, not-all-that-brilliant-with-a-sword Adam Pierson. The one who’d taken his lover Kristin’s head. The one who persisted in hanging around his teacher like a bad rash. If Methos was bothered by Richie’s obvious incredulity, he didn’t show it. He just lounged casually on his bar stool while Duncan did all the talking, facial expression implying that this was the funniest thing he’d witnessed in years. Joe knew better. It had to be killing Methos to have his secret seep to one more person, especially the Immortal “kid” he’d always regarded with so much scorn. Still, he was here, and it was all too obvious why—because MacLeod had asked him to be. Joe could see the way Methos kept his eyes on the Highlander, his body always turned in Duncan’s direction no matter how casual his pose, and that hurt. It hurt to see that MacLeod was the center of Methos’s attention almost as badly as discovering that Methos would jeopardize his cover merely because Duncan asked. Joe found it difficult to keep his mind on the conversation; it wasn’t until he realized that all three Immortals were looking at him expectantly that he discovered he’d missed something. “What?”

“I said, Joe, help me out,” Richie repeated impatiently. “Five thousand years of wisdom? *Him*?”

Joe considered, aware of three staring sets of Immortal eyes. He avoided Methos’s neatly. “Well, I don’t know about the wisdom part,” he said gruffly, seeing in his mind’s eye all the times he’d witnessed Methos being desperate or frightened or confused, and all the stupid, impulsive things those emotions had made him to do. Slicing his hand open in front of Christine. Insulting people who really shouldn’t have been insulted. Even bringing that damn journal to Joe’s Watcher trial. Then, against his will, Joe remembered two other things—a night when Methos had taken Adam Pierson off along with his clothes, and a morning when Joe had watched him dance with his sword through an abandoned park. “But the five thousand years part—yeah,” Joe finished softly, reluctantly remembering the beauty of that dance, the way serenity and strength and age-old skill had flowed through Methos’s every move. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

Richie snorted and rolled his eyes. MacLeod, with the air of a man stepping into a fearful breach, went on to explain that sometimes what you saw really was what you got, and Methos…Joe didn’t know how Methos reacted to his comment, because he refused to look Methos’s way. When the argument finally wound to an end and both Richie and MacLeod left, Joe was suddenly faced with the prospect of being alone with his…his what? Lover no longer seemed appropriate. Friend seemed much too optimistic. *My Methos* whispered a voice in the back of his head, hopeful and tender, and the fact that even a part of him could still think of Methos like that scared Joe badly. “I—I think I’ll go try to see what I have on this Other Methos in the Chronicles,” he said, and beat a hasty retreat. Hoping against hope that the old Immortal would take the hint and go. 

And at first, it seemed to work. As Joe limped into his office, he heard Methos mutter something about how he should really go buy some socks, which to Joe seemed as good an excuse as any. *Yes, Methos, go. Go buy socks. Buy enough to fill a football field, if it will get you out of here. Just don’t make things worse than they already are.* But just as Joe had sat down at his desk he heard quiet footsteps and his office door being slowly, carefully closed. Then hands were on his shoulders, and wonderfully talented lips were brushing his neck, and a warm melting feeling was trying to make its way down Joe’s spine. Fortunately, it was stopped in its tracks when it met the iciness in Joe’s heart. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?”

The beautiful voice sounded confused. Joe forced himself not to soften. “Don’t. Just don’t,” he said. And then, because he could *feel* the words “What’s wrong?” beginning to form on Methos’s lips, and because there was no way Joe could answer that question truthfully without either exploding or bursting into tears, he spun around in his desk chair, facing Methos with blazing eyes. “Tell me what you really know about this other you,” he barked. “I know there were a lot of things you were keeping from MacLeod.”

Direct hit. Methos’s eyes went from mildly startled to cold and closed in a heartbeat. The rest of his features settled into a bland, blank mask. “Now what makes you think that?”

“Don’t start.” Joe reached behind himself, savagely grabbing a handful of the paperwork he’d accumulated during the last eight hours. “This morning I had Lindsey at the Paris Library fax me summaries of all the official reports on the Methos project Adam Pierson ever filed. You’ve been going out of your way to point suspicion at this Other Methos for years--‘discovering’ new sources in which Methos is described as having this guy’s coloring and height, re-translating old sources to make Methos sound like a peace-spouting saint rather than the beer-guzzling pragmatist we all know you really are. Are you really trying to tell me that you’ve never met this guy before?”

“It’s *true*, Joe! I honestly have never met the man.” Joe waited, inwardly boiling. After a moment, Methos’s shoulders slumped. “All right, all right,” he said in surrender. “I really haven’t ever met him in person, Joe. But I’ll admit that I’ve known about him for quite some time.”

“And just how long is ‘quite some time’?”

“Oh, not more than thirty years, I should think,” Methos said lightly. Joe gave him a not-amused face. Methos sighed. “All right. I first heard about him during the early 1960’s,” he said seriously. “An Immortal student of mine ran into him in Venice Beach. They dropped some acid together, my student listened to his peace speech. And then my student suggested that he take my name.” Joe’s mouth dropped open. Methos raised his hand. “No, no, don’t look at me like that. My student had no idea who I really was. Methos was just a myth to him, like he is to most Immortals. He just thought it was a good joke, convincing this young, naïve new Immortal to take the name of the oldest of the old.”

“Who was this student?”

“I really don’t think…”

“Think again,” Joe said harshly. “Who was it, Methos?”

For a long moment Joe thought Methos wasn’t going to answer. Then he swallowed and looked down at his boot tops. “He’s had a lot of names over the centuries, some more famous than others,” he said reluctantly. “You’d probably recognize him best as Jim Morrison.”

Whatever Joe had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Jim Morrison?” he repeated blankly. “*The* Jim Morrison? Of The Doors?”

“That was his name at the time. He…”

“Oh god. I don’t think I want to know.” Joe fell back against his chair back with a bump. Then he bolted upright again. “Oh, hell, who am I kidding? *Of course* I want to know. Jim Morrison was *Immortal*?”

“Surprised?”

“No. Yes. No. I mean, I always thought all that stuff about his body disappearing after his death was suspicious. I just never thought…none of the Watchers ever suspected…” Joe shook his head wonderingly. “It certainly makes the lyrics to ‘Light My Fire’ appear in a whole new light.”

“’The time to hesitate is through/No time to wallow in the mire/Try now, we can only lose/And our love become a funeral pyre,’” Methos quoted softly. “Byr—Jim always hated that song. He hated that it became so popular when all his other more experimental pieces failed. He actually only wrote the second verse; Robby Krieger wrote the rest. But you’re right. It’s a pretty obvious metaphor for facing a Challenge, isn’t it.”

“‘Try to set the night on fire.’ Yeah. Yeah, I’d say it was.” Joe looked at his lover, considering. “So Jim Morrison was your student.” Methos gave a self deprecating shrug. Joe’s eyes narrowed. “You’re never going to stop surprising me, are you?”

Methos looked uncomfortable. “Some people might consider that a good thing, Joe.”

“Yeah. *Some* people would,” Joe said, and was feeling just petty enough to take some cruel satisfaction from the way Methos flinched. He settled back into his chair. “So. You knew about this other you for more than thirty years. What made you start changing the Chronicles to implicate him?”

“Horton.”

A chill went down Joe’s spine at the sound of his dead brother-in-law’s name. “Horton?”

“You know what happened to the Watchers during those first few months after Horton, Joe,” Methos said tiredly. “Everyone was jumping at shadows, looking for any sign of betrayal, ready to start the next witch hunt. If I’d been discovered then…well, just being Immortal would have been bad enough. If anyone had figured out which Immortal I was, I probably would have been executed on the spot. I wanted to muddy the waters a bit. Make sure that didn’t happen.” Reluctantly, Joe nodded. He didn’t like it, but it did make sense. “And then,” Methos continued, looking even more grim, “there was Kalas. When it became obvious to me that any Immortal with enough determination could get access to the Chronicles…”

“You wanted any future Kalas’s to go after Mr. Peace and Light, not you,” Joe finished. “It never occurred to you that you might be getting this other Methos killed?”

“No. It occurred to me that I might be keeping *this* Methos alive,” Methos answered heatedly. “Joe, nobody ever held a sword against the man’s throat and forced him to take my name. All Jim did was suggest it to him, and he adopted the suggestion for reasons of his own. I just…took advantage of his stupidity.” Joe snorted, shaking his head. A flush of anger came into Methos’s pale cheeks. “Joe, early this morning, you told me that you wanted the real me, even if it wasn’t always convenient,” he said. “Well, take a good look: this is who I am. I care about my own survival. I will do whatever it takes to ensure it. And I don’t particularly care about saving fools from their own folly.”

“Oh no?” Joe shoved himself to his feet. He couldn’t help himself. He had to move, had to start pacing the floor of the small office, or his next action would be to start throwing his office supplies straight at Methos’s handsome face. “And I suppose that’s why you just risked everything to tell Richie who you really were? To let him experience the consequences of his own folly?”

“That wasn’t my primary motivation, no,” Methos said, with such collected calm that Joe’s fingers itched to hurl his stapler. “Joe, what the hell’s going on? Are you honestly telling me that you *didn’t* want me to tell Richie who I was?”

“I didn’t want you to do it like this!”

“Then how did you want me to do it?” Patience finally at an end, Methos’s voice rose sharply. “By phone? E-mail? Certified letter? Did you want me to rent one of those vans with the megaphones that the politicians use and shout ‘I am Methos’ to the entire town? Just what exactly did I do wrong, Joe?”

“I didn’t want you to do it for *him*!”

“You think I did this for Richie?” Methos got to his feet. “Believe me, the child’s well being was the last thing on my mind! We’ve had this argument before, Joe. Richie means nothing to me. If it wasn’t that *you* thought of him as family…”

“Are you actually trying to tell me that you did it for *me*?”

“Who else is there?”

“There’s MacLeod!” Joe shouted, so loudly that it rang in his ears. He spun on his heel and faced the Immortal, eyes wild. “I know things aren’t over between you yet, Methos. I know you didn’t tell him about us.”

For a moment Methos looked stunned. Then understanding swept over his features. It was followed by a weariness so extreme that the small part of Joe which wasn’t infuriated wanted to take him in his arms and tell him everything would be okay. But the other parts overruled the instinct, and Joe ended up folding his arms protectively across his chest while Methos sagged back down onto the couch, alone. “No,” Methos said tiredly. “You’re right. I didn’t tell him. There just wasn’t time.”

“You were gone for more than six hours!”

“Yes. I know. But MacLeod didn’t get back to the dojo until nearly four. And then he’d already heard about Richie and the other me. I didn’t have a chance…”

“No chance,” Joe repeated bitterly. “Tell me, Methos. Just exactly how much time does it take to say, ‘MacLeod, Joe and I are together now, so you better stop looking at me like you want to bend me over one of his bar stools?’ For fuck’s sake, Methos!” This time Joe didn’t resist temptation. He actually picked up a pen and threw it across the room, although not in Methos’s direction. It crashed into the wall by the filing cabinet, dropping down to the floor. “You could at least have *looked* at me once or twice while you were talking to Richie, instead of sitting the whole time facing Mac’s way. Do you have any idea how crazy that made me?”

“I kept my back to you because I can *trust* you!” Methos shouted back. “Joe, it’s been months since I last saw MacLeod, and we didn’t exactly part on friendly terms. *Of course* I was going to sit where I could keep my eyes on him! The kid, too; I’ve never been his flavor of the month. And now that he knows the kind of power my Quickening can bestow…well. I didn’t get to be this old without being cautious!”

“Oh.” Joe stopped in his tracks, completely taken aback by the logic of this. Even through his anger-hazed mind, he had to admit that Methos was making perfect sense. But… “Then why on earth did you actually tell Richie who you were? You could have just…I don’t know. Richie’s seen your Watcher tattoo. You could just have told him that you’d been in charge of the Methos project for years and you knew for sure this new guy was an imposter. Or something.”

Methos looked startled. “I honestly didn’t think of that,” he said. “MacLeod decided that Richie had to be told, and he was in such a hurry…”

“So you’re back to doing everything MacLeod tells you to do, then?” Joe demanded. “Just like in Paris?”

Methos’s eyes flickered Joe’s way in surprise, and for a moment Joe thought he saw—something that disturbed him. Fear, perhaps. Or regret. But a second later it was gone, replaced by more of that soul-deep weariness. “No. We’re not,” Methos said levelly. “But it has been a hell of a day, Joe, and I’ve gotten a total of 6 hours of sleep in the last 72. You’ll have to forgive me if my mind isn’t quite as sharp as it could be.”

Joe still glared at Methos angrily, but inside he felt something start to crumble. Methos really did look like he’d been washed and hung out to dry. Maybe…maybe Joe had been too hasty. Maybe. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell Mac about us, Joe,” Methos said humbly. “Like I said, MacLeod was late getting home from the docks. When he did arrive the first thing he did was accuse me of intentionally trying to get Richie killed by talking him into giving up his sword. I had to explain, and then…well, then we were on our way here. And call me crazy, but I just didn’t want to have that conversation once the kid showed up.” Joe said nothing, anxiously nibbling on his lip. “I *am* sorry, Joe. I’ll do better. I’ll tell him the very next time we have a moment alone.”

“Hmmm.” Joe hesitated for a long moment, heart swinging wildly between rage and love…and then his intrinsic sense of justice kicked in and tipped the balance. Methos was right. It had not been the easiest of days, and the Immortal was clearly at the end of his rope. Joe walked over and joined him on the couch. “Maybe you shouldn’t have to,” he said. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, maybe you shouldn’t have to,” Joe repeated. “I mean, I thought about it some, after you left this morning. It’s a big deal, coming out to Mac. He’ll be the first person to know about us since Don died, after all. Maybe it was unfair of me to ask you to tell him on your own. I just—”

“Thought there was still a chance I might be passionately in love with him,” Methos finished dully. “And you wanted me to have the chance to stare into his eyes in private to find out if that was true.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Only because I’m very old and very wise. Although today the emphasis should most definitely be put on the ‘old’ rather than the ‘wise’,” Methos said ruefully. He stretched his arms over his head, causing several overly tense muscles to pop. Joe winced at this further evidence of the Immortal’s exhaustion, guilt swarming over him as overwhelmingly as anger had a moment ago. And wasn’t that an interesting experience, to go from one extreme to the other in the space of a few heartbeats? Life with Methos was certainly never dull. Methos turned toward him on the couch, knee lightly brushing Joe’s thigh. “I don’t love Duncan MacLeod, Joe. I never did.”

“You sure about that?”

Methos nodded his head slowly, emphatically. Joe hesitated for a moment more…then decided to let it go. In his heart he knew it really wasn’t that simple…there was still something going on there, something that Methos either couldn’t or wouldn’t see. And Joe would have sworn on a bible that Duncan still had feelings for the old Immortal, feelings that would have to be confronted before this issue could truly be laid to rest. But as long as those feelings were only on one side, he and Methos could deal with them later. Together. As a team. “Right,” Joe said, determinedly turning his back on the matter. “We’ll tell him about us together, then. *After* this latest thing with Richie is settled.”

Methos cocked an expressive eyebrow. “And just when do you think that will that be?”

“Be damned if I know,” Joe said. “When he stops walking around defenseless, I suppose. Got any ideas?”

“Oddly enough, I do.” Methos answered. “Since telling Richie my real name did exactly hay’pence four penny’s worth of good, I think it’s time for plan B.”

“You have a plan B?”

“Well, actually, it’s plan C,” Methos answered. “Plan B involved shutting the kid up in a nice warm tomb somewhere for forty or fifty years until he grew up. But since I doubt either you or MacLeod would let me get away with that…” Joe shook his head, unable to suppress a tiny bubble of laughter. Methos’s face lit up, and Joe realized that Methos had been waiting for that laughter all along. *I really do matter to him,* Joe thought. *I really do…* He reached over, laying a hand on Methos’s knee. The Immortal immediately covered it with his own as he smiled back in pure relief. “No, I didn’t think so,” Methos said. “So I’ll just have to talk to my doppelganger, instead.”

“You’d do that?”

“I’d do that,” Methos confirmed with a nod. “*Please* tell me that Williams had the brains to follow this other me home, figure out where he lives? Somehow I doubt the phonebook has a listing for ‘Methos the Imposter’.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, Williams followed him to the Seacouver Historical Society Museum,” he answered. “Apparently he works there as the groundkeeper.”

Methos sniffed. “More proof that he isn’t me,” he said disdainfully. “I gave up on manual labor as a profession the moment they invented writing.”

“Williams seemed to think it fit. Wisdom, humility, the courage to live a simple life connected to the soil, etc. etc.” Methos looked unimpressed. “I know I may regret asking this,” Joe said, “but just what are you planning to say to him? ‘Excuse me, you’re using my name, I want it back?’”

“Hardly,” Methos answered. “I just thought I’d make it obvious that I know he’s not what he pretends to be, and then I’d tell him to move on. Sort of a ‘get out of my town by sunset’ kind of thing.” Methos smiled evilly. “I must admit I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t had a chance to use that line since I was riding with Butch and Sundance.”

“Butch and Sundance? As in, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

“Amanda didn’t tell you?”

“Amanda knows about this???” Methos merely smirked. Joe sighed. “You really aren’t ever going to stop surprising me, aren’t you.”

“In many ways, I’ve let a quite surprising life, Joe,” Methos said, suddenly very serious. “And I don’t want to hide it from you anymore. That means that from time to time you’re going to be startled. Shocked, even.” Joe nodded heavily. Methos gave his hand a squeeze. “But in the meantime…”

“Yes?”

“Would it be too surprising if I told you how much I wanted you to stop talking and kiss me, already?”

Joe shook his head. “Not all that surprising, no,” he said, and leaned forward. He met Methos’s lips in a kiss that was as tender as it was passionate, then broke away, tucking his head into the strong Immortal shoulder. “I do want to know who you’ve been and what’ve you done, Methos,” he said. “It’s just…”

“Not easy. Yes, I know.” There was a long silence while they merely held each other, then Methos pulled back and gave him an uneasy grin. “You know, I don’t think you had this couch in here the last time I visited,” he said. “That probably explains why we’ve never actually had sex in your office before.”

“Haven’t we?”

“No. As I recall, we got pretty close that time I flew in to surprise you for your birthday, but I think we stopped short of actually doing the deed. Mostly because the only flat surface you had in here at the time was your desk, and it was covered with paperwork.”

“It still is.”

“Hence my intense appreciation for the addition of the couch.”

“Hmmm.” Joe felt the seat next to him with a considering hand. The Watcher budget hadn’t exactly extended to luxury when it came to picking out furnishings for the bar. And Joe had only bought the couch during Duncan’s Dark Quickening scare, when he’d stayed at the bar 24-7 waiting for news. The springs hadn’t gotten any more padded since then, and the thought of sleeping on the couch didn’t exactly revive happy memories. “Home would be much more comfortable,” he said, and looked deeply into the old Immortal eyes. “Spend the night with me, Methos?”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Joe.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

***

The next morning, Methos got into the cab outside of Joe’s duplex, body rested and mind still full of the memory of Joe’s sleepy morning kiss. Of Joe’s warmth. Of Joe’s love. Methos really, really hadn’t wanted to crawl out of bed at all, but he had a job to do. The Immortal Currently Also Known As Methos had to be warned off, before he could cause any more complications amongst Methos’s unlikely new family. As Methos gave the Seacouver Historical Society’s address to the driver and settled into the back seat, he had the rather gloomy feeling that Richie Saving was going to be a regular part of his duties from now on. Never mind. In the grand scheme of things, it really wasn’t that great a price to pay. And it was certainly going to be an easier task than the only other thing Joe had asked him for…

Methos heaved a heavy sigh. MacLeod. Why did everything always have to come back to MacLeod? Methos had done his best to smooth over Joe’s jealousy yesterday, but deep down he knew it wasn’t going to last. Because, let’s face it, Joe had every right to be suspicious. No, Methos didn’t love MacLeod. But the physical attraction was there anyway, instinctive and compelling, and for the life of him Methos didn’t know what to do to stop it. The ride MacLeod had given him yesterday from the dojo to the bar had been sheer torture; Methos had had to resort to the schoolboy trick of conjugating Latin verbs in his head to keep his body’s… discomfort… at Duncan’s nearness from becoming apparent. Fortunately, it seemed to have worked. Duncan had given no sign at all that he knew what Methos was feeling or, thank all the gods mankind had ever worshipped, was experiencing anything similar in return. He’d just stayed silent for most of the trip, occasionally drumming his fingers against the T-bird’s steering wheel, until during one particularly long red light he’d spoken. “You know, that was really interesting, what you said about Joe’s Bar becoming the equivalent of Holy Ground,” he’d said. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But it’s true.”

Startled, Methos had glanced sharply in MacLeod’s direction. “It is for me,” he said simply, watching for a reaction, and when Duncan just nodded Methos decided he was free to probe a little deeper. “I—ah, I take it you and Joe have patched things up, then?”

“After what happened with the Watchers and Jacob, you mean?” Methos had nodded. MacLeod had looked sad. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say we have. It took some time, but…well, Joe’s worked hard these last few months, turning the Watchers back into the kind of organization where something like Jacob’s death can never happen again. And we’ve been through a lot together this fall. Joe helped me with Richie, I helped him with Betsy…”

“Betsy?” Methos had frowned, trying to remember why the name seemed familiar. It had taken a few moments, but finally his memory had thrown up a card. “Do you mean Bette? Joe’s high school girlfriend?”

MacLeod hadn’t bothered to hide his surprise. “Yes, that’s the one. She’s going by Betsy now. How did you know?”

*I know because Joe told me about her,* Methos had thought. *He told me long ago, when he still thought I was Adam Pierson and we were up late sharing embarrassing stories from our allegedly misspent youths. I know about their first kiss at the Spring Enchantment dance, the first time they tried to have sex when Joe was still too green to figure out how to get her pantyhose off, and the night he gave her his class ring right after he learned that he’d been drafted. I know because I loved him and, unlike mine, Joe’s past has always been an open book to the people he loves. How do *you* know, Highlander?* “Yes, well,” Methos had said aloud. “You’d be surprised at all the things I know about Joe. We’ve…known each other for a very long time now, after all.”

“Yeah, you have, haven’t you,” Duncan had answered thoughtfully. “I keep forgetting that, for some reason. Keep thinking that I was the one who found you first. Maybe because in a way, I was.” He’d shot Methos a cryptic glance. “You never would have told him you were Methos at all if I hadn’t spilled the beans, would you?”

Methos had ignored this. The question was a painful one, and it really wasn’t any of the Highlander’s business. He’d gone back to the original topic. “What did Bette want?”

“Betsy,” MacLeod had corrected him. “She wanted Joe, in a word. She read an article about him and the bar in some magazine or other and hopped on the first flight here.” The light had finally changed, and MacLeod had shifted the T-Bird into gear. “You should have seen Joe, Methos. He was so shy, acted like he’d never had a woman interested in him before. Did everything he could to avoid the lady. He’d never found the courage to tell her about his legs, you see. I had to resort to some really sneaky tricks to get him to accept her dinner invitation.”

*That’s not all he didn’t tell her,* Methos had thought sourly, thinking about Smokey and the rest of Joe’s wartime experimentations. He knew that Joe’s reluctance to get in touch with Bette after the war had much more to do with uncertainty over his orientation than the loss of his legs. Not that Joe would ever have told MacLeod that, of course. Joe still wanted the Highlander’s respect too badly to risk sharing that kind of detail. *Sneaky tricks to get him to go out with her, MacLeod?* Methos had wondered. *What kind of hell did you put the poor man through?* “What happened?”

“They went out a few times. Then she told him she was married.” MacLeod had shrugged gracefully as he made another turn. “She couldn’t leave her kids, but when she finally found out where Joe was she just had to see him again. Apparently she’d spent the last 20 years thinking about him. Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” Methos had answered. “I can imagine.” He’d cleared his throat. “So Bette went back to her husband, did she? How did Joe take it?”

“Oh, Joe’s tougher than he looks,” MacLeod had answered easily. “He was quiet for a few days, but then he bounced back. Invited me to a football game and everything. Like I said, we’ve pretty much patched things up by now.” The Highlander’s chocolate brown eyes had met Methos’s briefly in the rear view mirror. “You and I, however, still have things to discuss.”

*More than you know, Highlander. More than you know,* Methos had thought uneasily. But they were approaching the bar; there was no time for a deeper conversation, not that Methos would have known how to start one anyway. Any more than he knew how to explain to Joe that he was still attracted to the Highlander physically. After all, Joe had made it quite clear that he didn’t want explanations where MacLeod was concerned. He just wanted Methos to fix it. And fix it Methos would. Somehow.

Right after he saved Richie’s head, again.

The grounds of the Historical Society Museum were extensive and, Methos had to admit, quite nicely kept. Clearly The Other Him had talents beyond suckering naive Immortals out of their swords. Methos parked and asked for directions at the main gate, then followed the specified path to the top of a hill—where he instantly felt the buzz of a tall, broad-shouldered man, working on his knees amongst the ivy. Methos frowned. The stranger’s buzz was steady and strong, meaning that he was several centuries older than Byron had led Methos to believe. Well, Byron never had been the best judge, of either characters or Quickenings. But there was more than just the indicators of age in that Presence that made Methos uneasy. There was something else…a strange tang to the aura that…hmm. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought. Methos crested the hill and planted his feet. “Methos, I presume!” he called out.

It was strangely liberating, being able to shout his name to the skies, knowing that the risk of exposure was somebody else’s and not his own. But the imposter didn’t seem upset to hear it. He just lifted his head and flashed Methos a charming smile. “So they tell me,” he replied.

Well, well. Whatever else he was, the imposter clearly had some skill in the art of verbal warfare. That reply was neither an affirmation nor a denial; it was just a null statement, one that would let the listener drop his own beliefs into the blank space without even realizing there was a blank space at all. Methos couldn’t have done better himself. “Y’know, it’s interesting,” he said casually, coming down the hill to stand at the man’s side. “I was always told that you were a myth. And yet you look very, very real.” The imposter just smiled serenely and kept on working with his plants. Methos cocked his head to one side, putting on his best stupid face. “Tell me, is it true that you were a friend of Socrates?”

“Oh, I’ve had many friends.”

“I see.” It was another excellent verbal parry, as essentially content-less as the first. Methos smirked internally, although outwardly he endeavored to look more stupid still. “And, um, I’ve always wondered…Cleopatra? What was she really like?”

“She was a woman. She loved. She lived, she died.”

“Yes.” Methos practically purred the word. This third non-answer in a row was all the answer he needed, He knew now, if he couldn’t have already guessed, that the imposter knew nothing about history…not the world’s, and not Methos’s, either. Good. It was safe to move on. “Speaking of death…” Methos drew his sword from its hidden pocket within his coat, relishing the way the man on the ground stiffened at the deadly musical chime. “You seem very vulnerable.” He touched the pointed tip briefly to the back of the imposter’s neck. Then he pulled back and polished the blade nonchalantly against his sleeve, waiting. 

Much to his surprise, the man on the ground made no move to defend himself. He just gave a little shrug. “We’re all vulnerable, friend.”

“Yes, but you a little more than me, I think,” Methos sneered. *Come now, stop toying,* he thought. *Reveal your true colors. You want to pretend to be me, youngling? Let’s see you deal with the perils as well as the power of carrying my name.* “After all, a lot of people might want the head of a 5,000 year old man.”

And then the imposter did something that Methos would never have anticipated. For the first time he looked away from his plants to meet Methos’s glance directly. And in his eyes there was a strange glimmer, not unlike the one Methos had gotten used to seeing Cassie’s. “A lot of people might want to listen to a 5,000 year old man, too,” he said softly.

Methos felt his skin break out in goose bumps. It was almost as if the stranger *knew*--but he couldn’t. Could he? “I suppose that’s true,” Methos said, and couldn’t help the bit of self-mockery that came into this voice. “I mean, fifty centuries after all. You must have learned a lot. Wisdom, knowledge, that sort of the thing…”

“The truth is, my beliefs are very simple.”

He said it with an infuriating smug smile, and Methos felt himself begin to bristle with indignation. Did this impudent child really think he could lecture him? “Yes, I’ve heard about your beliefs,” he snapped. “Do you really think there’s no such thing as evil?”

“Only fear.”

“So what, Genghis Khan and Hitler were just children playing up?”

“No.” The Messenger shook his head. “No, they were men. Men driven by fear to commit evil acts.” And once again his eyes glimmered eerily as they settled knowingly on Methos’s face.

Methos stiffened. He heard the unspoken “As you did, once” as clearly as if the other Immortal had actually said it aloud, and it chilled him to the bone. “And if their mothers had loved them truly, it would have been another world,” he retorted half-heartedly. But the sarcasm didn’t have a tenth of its usual bite. 

“Can you say it wouldn’t?”

There was so much simple honesty in the question that Methos hesitated. No, he couldn’t say it wouldn’t have, couldn’t say that all. He swallowed, looking at the Messenger with new eyes. At any other time in his life he would have dismissed the man out of the hand as the fraud he almost certainly had to be. But his months with Cassie had changed him, led him to believe there really were those who could read ahead in the great play. Maybe… “What about the Game?” Methos asked, and there was a yearning in the question that not even five thousand years of cynical self protection could hide. “Do you really think we can end the Game?”

“I think it’s worth trying.”

“Even if it costs you your head?”

Methos raised the sword again, but he wasn’t playing now. He genuinely wanted to know if this stranger thought it was possible, and how deep his commitment really was. The Messenger was quiet for several beats. Then he finally set aside his trowel and climbed to his feet. “Can anyone live for five thousand years and say they did nothing?” he said, and it wasn’t a reply—instead, he looked directly at Methos in a very confrontational way. Methos found himself shrinking from the direct accusation those glimmering eyes held. “Did nothing, risked nothing? Merely stayed alive?” The imposter smiled mockingly. “It would be pointless.”

Methos froze solid, the statement flecking on something deep and raw inside his soul. God knew MacLeod had hinted at the same thing often enough, that his years were meaningless because he’d always chosen safety over risk. Richie undoubtedly felt the same. And Joe—Methos shuddered, remembering the way Joe had looked at him yesterday when he’d discovered Methos had been writing the imposter’s physical description into the Chronicles instead of his own. Was that what Joe thought, too? That his years of keeping to the shadows and ruthlessly protecting his head were all a waste? “Some people might say that experience was worth saving,” he said hesitantly. 

“I’m not one of them,” the other Immortal said bluntly, so bluntly that Methos could not suppress his flinch. But then the Messenger smiled again. This time there was no mockery. There was just humor, and good will, and a silent offer of comradeship. “But…we can talk about it.”

And that verbal olive branch was somehow worse than all the cat and mouse that had gone before. “No. I’ve got a prior engagement, I’m afraid,” Methos said coolly, lowering his sword. He didn’t want this man’s head. Didn’t want anything, really, except to walk away and lick his wounds and check to see if he had “5,000 year old failure” printed on his forehead. To wonder if being his true self really was worth it, if everyone was always so disappointed in what they saw…

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“No, that’s right. You didn’t.” And he wouldn’t. Either the stranger already knew precisely who Methos was, or he was one damn fine actor. Confronting him would gain nothing…except perhaps to make Methos question himself even more. He sheathed his sword and walked away.

***

“A little pathos, a little pop psychology…the guy is either delusional, or he is a fraud! And you…” Methos shook his finger at MacLeod. “Are buying it!”

“I’m not buying anything!”

“No? One speech from The Wise One, and you forgive Culbraith. I mean, what’s next? Friendship rings? The Love Boat?”

“I haven’t forgiven Culbraith,” Mac replied testily. “He just made me think.”

“Ooooo!”

Joe watched the argument unfold from his table in the corner of the bar, quietly shaking his head. He didn’t know what to think. When Methos had first arrived at the bar an hour ago, he’d been quiet almost to the point of distraction; Joe had gotten the distinct impression that his confrontation with the Other Him hadn’t gone very well, but Methos had looked too shaken to press for details. Once Joe had ascertained that the imposter still lived and Methos’s odd behavior wasn’t due to the aftermath of a Quickening or other tragic event, Joe had just set out a bottle of Scotch and waited, courteously ignoring the way Methos gulped down the liquor as if it was the nectar of life itself. He could wait to hear the details. After all, he had news of his own to share. “I think I may have found The Messenger in the Chronicles,” he’d said.

“Who is he?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know for sure. We’ve only got about thirty years of records on him. They start during World War II…a Watcher serving in France saw him reviving on the field…”

“He’s much older than that, Joe. His Quickening has been around for several centuries behind him, at least.”

“You can tell?” Methos had nodded. “Well,” Joe continued, filing that bit of info away to be re-visited at a later date, “That didn’t have to be his first death, it just was the first one a Watcher happened to witness. He seems to have started preaching pacifism immediately after the war ended. The Chronicle stops in the late 1960’s. I’m assuming his Watcher lost track of him when he decided to start over using your name.” Methos had grimaced into his scotch, but he’d waved his hand, indicating that Joe should go on. “The records aren’t exactly reassuring, Methos. Immortals who hang around this guy have a habit of turning up dead.”

“He takes their heads?”

“No. He just converts them, but the end result is almost the same. The Immortals who follow him end up renouncing their swords…but the rest of the world doesn’t change. Six months later, or a year, they find themselves Challenged. And defenseless.” Joe had looked gloomily into his own scotch. “It’s a pretty clever way of whittling down the competition, isn’t it.”

“Hmmm.” Methos had looked thoughtful. “It *is* clever, if that’s his intent. But there may not be anything sinister behind his actions at all. He could simply be one of those people whose good intentions keep resulting in unintended evil…”

“You think he’s for real, then? That he honestly believes in what he says?”

“I don’t know.” Methos had looked lost. “He’s...got quite a presence, Joe. He seems to look inside you and know things that he shouldn’t. I just don’t know…”

And there the conversation had rested, Methos looking bleaker and more lost with every sip he imbibed. Joe had kept him company, silently waiting for the Immortal to sort out whatever was disturbing him and let Joe in on it. But then MacLeod had arrived, telling them both how The Messenger had stopped MacLeod’s long awaited battle with William Culbraith, and something in Methos had appeared to snap. His earlier doubts about the Messenger’s validity seemed to have vanished. He’d loudly denounced the man as a charlatan and a fraud, and said several choice words about Duncan’s gullibility in listening to him. “All I’m saying is, don’t think too hard,” Methos said now, glaring at Duncan. “We can’t afford another one on the list.”

“What list?”

“Ask Joe.”

And so Joe, very unnerved by Methos’s lightning change in attitude, had told Duncan about all the dead Immortals in the Messenger’s past. When Duncan left to have yet another heart to heart with Richie, Joe got to his feet, ready to force Methos into a chair and hold all the alcohol hostage until his lover told him what was really going on. But Methos was already slipping on his coat. He said he needed to get some air and would meet Joe back at the duplex in time for supper, then left before Joe could so much as protest, leaving Joe alone, speechless and disturbed. This wasn’t good. Something about this imposter was getting to all three of his Immortals…and it was up to Joe to figure out what. He decided to return to the Chronicles. If Methos was right and this guy really was older than they thought, there should be something about him *somewhere*…

About two o’clock in the afternoon, Joe found what he was looking for. He gave a low whistle…then gathered his coat from the rack and his gun from the safe and got into his car. He followed the same directions he’d given Methos that morning, and found his quarry setting out pansies in the Historical Society’s garden. “Nice garden,” Joe said.

“Thank you.”

“We need to talk.”

“Seems to be a very popular activity today,” the Messenger replied. He set the pansy flat on a table and sat down on a garden bench, looking up at Joe benevolently. “How can I help you, friend?”

Joe remained standing. “You can start by not calling me friend,” he said. “See, we aren’t friends, and we never will be. I know what you are.” The Messenger frowned politely, as if he had no idea what Joe was talking about. Joe sighed. “Let’s keep the game playing to a minimum, shall we? I know what you are. I know that you are very, very hard to kill. I even know which particular very-hard-to-kill-person you’re pretending to be. And I happen to know for certain that you aren’t him.”

The Messenger tensed. It was subtle, very hard to see unless you were looking for it, but Joe was looking. Underneath the oh-so-practiced compassionate smile, the Messenger was worried. “You do seem to be very well informed, friend,” he said slowly. “May I ask what makes you so certain?”

“Easy.” Joe favored the man with a shining, toothy, very frightening grin. “That guy that you’re impersonating? The really, really old one? He happens to be the love of my life.” No words from the man on the bench, but his eyes widened subtly. “Yeah, I thought that might interest you,” Joe said. “Five thousand years of life and wisdom—I’ve touched it, held it in my arms. And buddy, you ain’t got it. You aren’t even close.” Another smile. “But then, you knew that. Didn’t you, Mr. Koell.”

Joe had been expecting it, and the imposter didn’t disappoint. At the sound of his true name…or at least the name he had used for more than two centuries of Watcher records…the muscles along the broad shoulders bunched, and suddenly the Immortal was dashing sideways, groping for something hidden in the ivy behind the bench. Something long, shiny, and very, very sharp. But by the time he withdrew it Joe had removed his hand from his jacket pocket—and had his pistol neatly leveled at the Immortal’s chest. “Yeah, I thought you’d have one of those hidden somewhere,” Joe said. “I *know* you, Mr. Koell. I know all about the mortals you’ve killed, your first death as a mercenary in the Napoleonic Wars, the teachers and the students you’ve betrayed. And so I knew all along that you would never have relied on the peace and love thing alone to stay alive. But I’ll admit that part of me is disappointed. It would have been nice to live in a world where at least one Immortal could live in peace. Without resorting to never leaving holy ground, I mean.” Joe gestured at the grass near his feet. “You can toss that here. And if you’re thinking that the worst I can do by shooting you is to slow you down for a while, I urge you to reconsider. I know a lot about your kind. Including how to kill you so you stay dead.”

There was another long pause. For a moment Joe was sure he was going to have to fire. But then the Immortal tossed the sword to Joe, pommel first. Joe picked it up with his free hand, surveying the age and workmanship. “Not bad,” he said. “And several centuries older than you, too. Who’d you kill to take this?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“No?”

“The sword was a gift. From my teacher.”

“How touching. Was that before or after you took her head?”

Mr. Koell bent his head. “Before,” he said quietly, and Joe was surprised to see what looked like honest sorrow. The Immortal spread his hands. “It’s not all an act, you know, the nonviolence. I haven’t taken a head since 1945.”

“Why carry the sword at all, then?”

“Not everyone sees the light at first glance. Some Immortals require more…convincing than others.” A shrug. “I use the sword purely for self defense.

“Right. You’re telling me that you accept Challenges, fight the other Immortals to their knees, and then just let them get up and walk away?” The Messenger was silent. “Yeah. I didn’t think so,” Joe said. “Walking away from a Challenge takes strength. Strength someone like you is really, really unlikely to have.”

“You do seem to know a lot about us, friend.”

“I already told you. I’m not your friend.”

“No.” It was said softly, with something like regret. “What is it you want then? For me to stop impersonating your beloved?”

“Hell, no,” Joe snorted. “If you’re stupid enough to want the name, by all means, keep on calling yourself Methos. I’d much rather that all the people who want the head of the Eldest go after you instead of him.”

“Then what?”

“I want you to get out of Seacouver, that’s all. I had thought about making you tell a certain youngster by the name of Richard Ryan that you were a fraud first, but I don’t think it would do any good now. He’s starry eyed, bought your message hook, line, and sinker. Not even learning that the Great Immortal Prophet Himself doesn’t follow his own rules will make him disbelieve the message now. You’ve done more damage than you know,” Joe said regretfully. “So…it’s best if you just leave. Go far, far away. And never come back.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll keep the sword. Just in case you get tempted to do any clean up on your way out of town.”

“Your beloved is safe from me, friend.”

“Of course he is. What, you think he couldn’t take your head? I repeat: the real Methos is worth several million of you. Richie’s the only one I’m worried about. Besides.” Joe gave an unpleasant chuckle. “I think there’s a certain kind of justice in forcing you to practice what you preach, for a short time at least. I don’t have any illusions—you’ll probably have another sword in your hand before the day is out. But a couple hours of vulnerability should make you think. Now. Pack your things and go.”

“I really need to finish setting out the rest of these pansies first, friend.”

“Fine. We can’t disappoint the garden lovers of America, now can we? I’m not an unreasonable man. I’ll give you twenty four hours to clear out. Take some time, plant your pansies, let your bosses know that you’re going on an extended vacation. But if I see you anywhere in my town after that, I *will* shoot you. And take your head before you recover.”

The Messenger frowned. “Do you have any idea what happens when a mortal takes an Immortal’s head, friend?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do,” Joe nodded. “Or rather I know what *doesn’t* happen, what gets lost for good. And the fact that I know that and am perfectly willing to do it anyway should tell you everything you need to know to take me seriously, ‘friend’.”

The Messenger sighed. “Yes. Yes, it does. May I just…?” He motioned at the various trowels and other garden tools scattered around the lawn. Joe nodded, although he kept his finger on the trigger as the Immortal got to his knees and began to gather up the tools. “Your beloved,” the Messenger said over his shoulder. “Was he the man who came to see me earlier today?”

“You don’t honestly expect me to answer that, do you?”

“No. I don’t suppose I do.” The Messenger shook his head. A most unsettling gleam came into his eyes. “I was just thinking that whoever the real Methos is, he seems to have educated you extraordinarily well in the ways of our kind. But if he was the gentlemen who visited me this morning—well. I wonder if you really know him as well as you think you do.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t really matter. His Quickening simply…had some interesting aspects to it, that’s all.”

Joe nibbled uncomfortably on his lip. He knew that displaying any curiosity at all was as good as giving in and saying, yes, the man who came here before really was Methos. But he couldn’t help himself. “What do you mean, interesting?”

“I’m not sure I can explain. It’s something only another Immortal could sense. And even then, only a very gifted few would understand what their senses were telling them.”

“Try me.”

“Very well.” The Messenger gave Joe a surprisingly compassionate look. “When two Immortals care for each other very much, and choose to spend a lot of time in each other’s company…”

“Spare me the birds and the bees lecture,” Joe growled. “Just spit out what was strange about this Immortal’s Quickening.”

“He’s been diminished, friend. Marked. Voluntarily surrendered his very heart and soul to another of our kind…another who responded by giving some of his own essence back in turn. That other’s Presence is wrapped around him like a blanket, crackling like a warning bell to any Immortal with the skill to read such things. Such an intermingling of Quickenings is very rare, my friend. It creates a bond that’s too deep to be expressed in words. It’s stronger than any mortal love-bond can be. It’s even strong enough to outlast an Immortal death.” The Messenger raised his eyebrows. “I feel I should offer you some advice, friend. If you call the man who refused to give his name this morning your beloved, you might want to ask him some searching questions about where he’s been spending his nights.”

“No,” Joe said. “No, you’re wrong.” The fake Methos merely shrugged, completely unconcerned. Joe tightened his grip on his pistol. “Twenty four hours,” he said coldly. “Then you’ll be gone. All right?”

“Certainly, friend.” The Messenger smirked. “I wish you peace.”

Joe spun on his heel and walked away.

***

“So Richie’s his latest disciple. Well. Isn’t that cute.”

They were in the dojo. For the last fifteen minutes, Methos had sat in the Highlander’s office listening to Duncan pour out his tale of woe; it seemed that Richie was determined to follow the Messenger, come what may. Methos was tired, hungry, and extremely on edge, the Highlander’s close proximity making his already stressed nerves jangle unbearably. Nevertheless, his comment about Richie had come out much more sarcastically than he’d intended. All he’d meant to do was express his own frustration with the situation, not belittle its seriousness. But Joe, who was half sitting and half leaning against Mac’s desk, suddenly gave Methos a look so cold that it could have frozen water. “Oh,” he said dangerously. “And I suppose *you* would know exactly what to do?”

Methos caught the look, and felt his hand tighten involuntarily on his knee. Joe had been in an odd mood all afternoon. When Methos had arrived at Joe’s duplex earlier, he’d expected Joe to be upset. Methos had, after all, just taken off that afternoon without an explanation, and Joe had every right to be irritated with his behavior. But when Methos had rung the door bell, a peace offering of Joe’s favorite Chinese takeout in his hands and a carefully worded apology on his lips, he’d been startled to find a Joe who didn’t seem angry with him at all. The mortal hadn’t demanded to know why Methos had left the bar so abruptly, or even asked where Methos had been. Instead he’d just said in a very distracted kind of way: “Oh. It’s you. Mac called, he still couldn’t change Richie’s mind. I’m going over to the dojo now…” and wandered out to the car, so preoccupied that he’d backed out of the drive and had almost driven away before Methos had a chance to stash the food in the fridge and lock up. All Methos’s attempts to engage Joe in conversation during the drive had been met with distant “hmms?” or outright silence, and Methos had been forced to conclude that Joe was too worried about Richie to have room for any other concern. Now, though, seeing the barely-controlled fury that was glittering in his lover’s eyes, Methos was beginning to think he’d thought wrong. “Oh, yes,” he said now, arranging his features into a smugly superior expression he knew Joe found irritating even at the best of times. If Joe was angry with Methos instead of the situation, the smugness should prod that fact to the surface. “I know what to do. Standard response to unforeseen dilemmas, perfected over many centuries."

“Which is what?”

“Nothing.”

Methos heard the subtle noise of disbelief Duncan made, but he was only paying attention to Joe. Joe, whose eyes flashed furiously before narrowing. “You know,” the mortal said slowly, and there was a cold, calculated anger there that made Methos instantly regret his prodding. After all, a sane man simply did not poke at an animal worried for its cubs the way Joe was currently worried about Richie. Not without expecting it to lash back. Methos was already composing an apology in his head—but then Joe finished his sentence. And what he said was so consciously cruel that Methos would never have expected it from him in a thousand years. “Sometimes I think I like this other Methos better.”

It was like being smacked across the face. “You asked,” Methos snapped back. Joe merely made a disgusted face and turned away. Methos got shakily to his feet. “I think maybe I’ll just go…look at the graffiti in the men’s room.”

“Is it just me, or is this guy really being a jerk?” Joe yelled after him as he left the office, and Methos almost turned back. Only MacLeod’s extremely unwelcome presence prevented him from marching in, grabbing Joe by the collar, and demanding to know exactly which bug had crawled up his ass. But MacLeod *was* present, and so Methos retreated to the dojo’s rather bleak little ground-floor men’s room instead, staring into the mirror while he tried to get a grip on the hurt that raged through him. *Take a deep breath, Methos,* he told himself. *Review the facts. You know Joe loves you. He doesn’t know that your little meeting with the Wise One this morning sent your self-esteem into a tail spin. And you know that he wouldn’t have said what he did under *any* circumstances if he wasn’t badly upset about something himself. Calm down. You can ride this out.* 

He splashed some water on his face and reached for a paper towel—only to discover that the dispenser was jammed. Cursing, Methos stooped down to poke at the mass of mangled paper with a finger, and stopped in his tracks. There on the bathroom wall, just to the left of the towel dispenser, was inscribed the following:

“For A Good Time Call Adam Pierson. 555-7321.”

It should have infuriated him. Instead, Methos just stared…and then began to shake from head to toe with silent laughter. He didn’t have to guess who had penned the message; the slogan had Richard Ryan written all over it. How long had it been there? Probably for quite some time. MacLeod hardly ever entered this bathroom, preferring to leave its maintenance to Richie or the janitorial staff. Besides, Methos recognized the number. It had belonged to the cell phone he’d carried right after he lost his memory, during the months he’d stayed on MacLeod’s couch. He’d known at the time that Richie had been very upset with him, both because of Kristin’s death and because of “Adam’s” continued presence in his teacher’s life; had Richie chosen to take out his frustrations in this singularly juvenile fashion? It was all so absurd that Methos couldn’t help but laugh. *Have to hand it to you, kid,* he thought. *I admit that I now finally understand the reason for a few very odd messages left on my voice-mail…but if you’d really wanted to embarrass me, you should have written me up in the women’s room instead. I’ve seen the kinds of ladies who work out here; they don’t tend to take no for an answer, which is why I always took the stairs up to the loft during working hours. It would have been *much* harder to explain messages from them to Alexa than the occasional drunken male. Or was I supposed to be mortified by the hint that I might be gay? Points for effort kid, but your execution could use some work…* 

Mood considerably lightened, Methos wiped his eyes, succeeded in removing a towel, and finished drying his hands. Right then. Time to go get rid of the Highlander so he could figure out what was eating Joe. And if he could save Richie’s life at the same time, so much the better. Methos tossed the crumpled towel squarely into the bin and marched back into the office, where Duncan was busily insisting to a very flustered Joe that he didn’t have a right to interfere in Richie’s decision to go weaponless—it was a matter of integrity. “Okay,” Methos said briskly. “So there's this Spanish guy, Alejandro Diego Spinoza. One day he gets called in by the Inquisition for questioning. Red hot pincers, tongs, the usual drill. Now, all he has to do is say ‘no.’ Very simple word. They take his home, his money, his lands. But he will not give in.”

Joe gave an impatient roll of his eyes. "So what happened?”

“He died screaming in agony. But—” Methos paused for effect—“He kept his integrity.”

Both the words and the pause had the desired result. MacLeod looked stricken for a moment, and then he knocked back the last of his scotch. "Don't save my seat," he said, reaching for his coat. “Let yourselves out.” And he walked out of the room.

Joe gave Methos a long look. “You are one calculating son-of-a-bitch."

“Got MacLeod off of his ethical high horse, didn’t I?” Methos answered lightly. Joe muttered something unintelligible and looked away. Methos sighed and pulled his chair out of the corner, placing it squarely in front of Joe. He spun it around and sat with his arms folded on the backrest, the very picture of determination. “Okay, Joe. Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“Out with whatever it is that’s changed you--the man who said he loved me--into this very mean bastard who’s been stabbing verbal knives into my heart all afternoon.”

For a second Joe looked absolutely furious, and Methos braced himself for a roof-shaking explosion. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the anger faded. Joe just looked dazed. “Love,” he repeated, mostly to himself. “That’s right. I did say that, didn’t I.”

“Joe?”

“And I didn’t just say it, either. I meant it. I did.” Joe looked at Methos, eyes open and earnest. The change in emotion was so pronounced that Methos wondered if he’d missed part of the conversation. Damn it, but he’d had that feeling much too often lately. Was he getting old?” “Methos,” Joe said softly, seriously. “Have you ever thought about what loving someone really means? When you care enough about that person to honestly want what’s best for them, no matter how angry or unhappy it might make you?”

Methos frowned. Very disturbed now, he got up, moved the chair aside, and settled next to Joe on MacLeod’s desk. “I think I do,” he said. “That’s why I allowed Richie to become only the fourth person this century to know my real name. And part of why I just earned myself an asshole of the year award provoking MacLeod into getting on his white charger to save him. Because it’s best for the person I love.” Joe stiffened slightly, and Methos wondered what he’d said wrong. “Joe,” he said, frustration evident. “What the hell is going on? Are you still angry that I didn’t tell MacLeod about us? Because I thought we got that all settled yesterday. We’ll tell him together, just as soon as this latest crisis with Richie is resolved…”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.” Joe was very, very quiet. “Maybe I was being premature. Maybe we shouldn’t come out to Mac at all.”

Pin-drop silence. Methos stared at his lover. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Joe shifted uncomfortably in his perch on Duncan’s desk. “I don’t think we should tell Mac about us. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“And just why do you think that, exactly?” Joe just shrugged, utterly poker faced. “Joe,” Methos said carefully, speaking through the fear that suddenly gripped him. “Did something happen after I left the bar this afternoon? Something that changed your mind about us?” *It had to be something, something beyond my charging off so abruptly. This morning we were happy. I know we were…*

“Nothing’s happened. I just…I finally got a few hours to think things over, that’s all.” Joe looked more uncomfortable still, and for the briefest of moments Methos was sure his beloved was lying. He dismissed it instantly as part of his own paranoia. What reason would Joe have to lie? “You were right, you know,” Joe continued. “Telling Mac is a big step. He’s going to be…well, surprised, no matter how we do it. And once we do, there’s no turning back.”

“And why would we want to turn back?”

“Because this all happening much too fast,” Joe answered. “For god’s sake, Methos. You’ve been back for less than two days, and in that time I’ve barely had a chance to catch my breath. I just hadn’t had a chance to think about…all the consequences of our being out, that’s all. And…”

Joe stopped, biting back the words as if he was frightened by them. He pushed himself off the desk and walked to the doorway, staring out into the dojo as his hands clasped the doorframe. Methos watched him with a tight, sinking feeling in his gut. “And this situation with the Messenger and Richie has shown you a side of my nature you didn’t know was there,” he said dully. “The more ruthless, pragmatic side. I imagine that’s going to take some getting used to.”

Joe whirled around, frowning, looking surprised—and then all expression faded, leaving just a dreary blandness that scared Methos more than anything else he’d seen so far. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any,” Joe said. “Look, Methos. It’s been a long time since we were…close. Probably neither of us is exactly who we expected the other to be. Maybe it would be better if we slowed down for a while. You know. We can go out on a few dates, get to know each other again…”

“Dates.”

“It’s not a dirty word, Methos!” Joe rubbed anxiously at his face. “Look, I …this thing we have is intense, okay? It’s easy to forget just how intense it can be when you’re not around. Now that you’re here again, I just have this feeling that if we don’t exercise some restraint, it could easily consume our every waking hour. And I don’t want that, not now. We need some distance. Enough to get a bit of perspective.”

“Perspective.”

“That’s not a dirty word either!” Joe paced agitatedly in a circle. When he came to a stop his forehead was shiny with sweat. “Listen, I wasn’t going to bring this up until after dinner, but…maybe you should find someplace else to stay tonight. A hotel or something. Just…you know. To give us both a bit of space.”

The words hung in mid-air for a long moment. “Space,” Methos said at last. “I see. Well. I—” His voice broke. With great effort he controlled it. “Maybe you’re right, Joe. I could certainly use a night of unbroken sleep.” Joe smiled wanly. Methos cleared his throat. “Mind if I take a rain check on that Chinese food? I really should get a move on if I’m going to find a place to stay. The leftovers should keep well enough in your fridge. We can eat them together tomorrow, if…if…”

The relief on Joe’s face was like a dagger to Methos’s heart. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” he said. “Look. I—I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? MacLeod should have some news about Richie by then. We’ll talk, figure out what to do next…”

“You do that,” Methos said, icily polite. Joe either didn’t notice the iciness or decided not to respond. He just gave Methos a tiny smile and limped out. Methos waited until he’d heard Joe’s car engine start and drive away. Then he turned off the lights, locked the dojo doors, and went his own way.

***

The first three hotels Methos tried to get a room at had no vacancies. Apparently there was some kind of major boat race happening in town that weekend, and a free room couldn’t be had for love or money. Methos had hard cold proof of this, because he tried both…or at least he tried the money accompanied with some mild flirtation, all to no avail. Finally the young lady behind the desk at hotel number five took pity on him and went through the phone book, eventually finding Methos a room at The Island Breeze--a truly terrible rat trap of a motor inn, one whose single virtue was the fact that the roof only leaked in the lobby. Methos booked in, eyed his filthy, lonely, tropical-themed room with distaste, and settled in. At least once every ten minutes he caught himself reaching for the phone; each time he made himself pull back. He was fairly sure that Joe’s definition of “space” did not include desperate phone calls. But he was at a loss for what else to do.

He supped on a dinner of potato chips and Pepsi from the hotel’s vending machine, fidgeted and paced and watched some truly appalling American TV. Finally, at a quarter after six, it was all too much. Determined to walk off his frustration, Methos yanked his worn boots back on over his tattered socks, double checked his weapons and slipped out the door. Was it dangerous, going out after dark in the City of 1000 Challenges? Yes. Unquestionably. But Cassie’s intense training had left his body craving physical activity, and it was better than sitting and stewing over Joe. Besides, Cassie had said he was now better than all but three Immortals in the world. And with the mood he was in at the moment, Methos almost wished he would run into number four…

But he didn’t, and was left alone with his thoughts as he trudged through the streets. By the time an hour had passed, Methos’s head really hadn’t gotten any clearer. He had, however, become sure of one thing: he had gotten very, very lost. Methos turned in a circle on the sidewalk, searching in vain for a landmark to help him navigate…and discovered that he was across the street from MacLeod’s dojo. His lip twisted bitterly. Of course. That damn Immortal homing instinct again. Get the least bit worried or upset and his Quickening decided it was time to go home to MacLeod, wagging its little tail behind him. Methos stared up at the windows, indulging in a moment of intense self-disgust…and then he gave in. Spacious and luxurious as the Highlander’s loft could be, it really wasn’t located in the best part of town; Methos’s chances of finding a cab here were extremely small. And MacLeod was certainly home, Methos could feel the powerful Buzz from here. Surely under the circumstances not even Joe could blame him for getting a drink and a ride back to his motel.

Provided, of course, that Joe still cared what Methos did at all. 

Feeling decidedly maudlin, Methos climbed the outside stairs. He raised his hand to knock…and paused. Now that he was closer, he could feel a second Immortal Presence inside the loft, one that had originally been eclipsed by MacLeod’s stronger energy. Richie? No, this new presence was much too powerful to be the kid. Amanda? No, it was too weak to be Amanda’s. A stranger, then. Methos frowned for a moment, considering, then went ahead and knocked. He really, really needed that drink. And surely even MacLeod could be counted on not to introduce him as Methos to a total stranger. It would be nice to retreat into being Adam Pierson again, just for one evening…

The door swung open. Richard Ryan stood inside it, rapier in hand, the air around him practically cracking with the energy of a recently taken Quickening. He looked startled, then lowered the sword. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

“Kid,” Methos said cordially, looking the boy up and down. Richie blushed a fetching pink, but Methos wasn’t interested in the child’s body. He was using millennia-old skills to study Richie’s aura, trying to read the subtle energetic patterns that would disperse entirely in just a few hours, the ones that would tell Methos just whose head Richie had taken. Culbraith’s? No, the pattern was wrong, and anyway there was too much power there for a man who had lived less than two centuries and fought very few Challenges in that time. It had to have been somebody older, someone much stronger…ah. The Messenger. No wonder Methos hadn’t been able to identify Richie just from his buzz. “So you’ve decided to rejoin the Game,” Methos said.

Richie stared at him for a moment, clearly wondering just how Methos knew…then looked at the sword in his hand. His cheeks flushed even pinker as he made the sword disappear. “I guess,” he said. “I didn’t really decide to rejoin it, though. It just kind of…rejoined me.”

“Well, that’s usually the way it works,” Methos answered sadly, remembering Giulia and Marco and all other times he’d tried to ignore the Game only to have one Challenge-bent Immortal ruin it all. He walked past Richie into the loft, where Duncan, damn him, already had an open bottle of beer in his hand. Their eyes met as he held it out, and Methos suddenly knew that the Highlander, too, was remembering all the times he had fruitlessly tried to escape their Immortal destiny. *A fine group we are,* Methos thought as he took the proffered beer, giving Duncan a grateful nod. *No wonder the Messenger had us so off balance. I guess deep down, each of us really wanted to believe…* He took a sip. “I take it that The Other Me has preached his final message.”

Duncan looked sad. Richie looked startled. “How do you know that? It only happened a few hours ago,” he said, and then answered himself. “Oh. I suppose Joe must have told you, huh?”

Ouch. It really hurt, the kid’s blithe assumption that whatever Joe knew, Methos knew, too. Methos’s hand tightened on the beer bottle. “He may have…given me the broad outlines,” he said, unable to admit aloud that the kid’s guess wasn’t true. “I must admit I’m a bit vague on the details, though. Did the Messenger Challenge you? Or did you Challenge him?”

Richie blinked. “Uh…neither,” he said. “What the heck? Are the Watchers actually saying *I* killed him?”

Methos frowned. The kid’s aura was so strong… “Well, didn’t you?”

MacLeod came out from behind the counter. “Richie didn’t take the Messenger’s head, Methos,” he said. “Culbraith did, right before he Challenged Richie. Richie won.”

“Oh. I see.” Well, that did explain the Messenger’s pattern on Richie’s Quickening, if Richie had killed Culbraith before the Messenger’s Quickening had had a chance to settle. Methos could feel MacLeod looking at him curiously, and something inside him squirmed—all right, so he’d been lying about hearing the story from Joe. Did the Highlander have to look at him in quite that way? “Strange that Culbraith should have been the one to get him,” Methos said by way of distraction. “I mean, he wasn’t particularly clever, or particularly good in a fight. You’d think that after several hundred years of dealing with sword-wielding skeptics, The Messenger would have been able to cope with him. I wonder what happened?”

MacLeod looked thoughtful, clearly not having considered this before. Richie bristled. “Oh, I don’t know. Culbraith wasn’t *that* bad in a fight,” he said, and too late Methos realized that he’d stepped on the kid’s pride. Of course Richie wanted to believe that his mentor had lost to…and that Richie himself had defeated…an incredibly gifted foe. Who wouldn’t? The young man placed one hand belligerently on his hip. “So,” he said hostilely. “What are you doing here? Surely The Real Methos has better things to do than hang around with kids like us.”

“Richie,” MacLeod said warningly.

“It’s all right, Mac,” Methos said. “It’s a valid question.” He gave Richie his best Adam Pierson smile. “As a matter of fact, I was walking. I got lost. When I realized I was close to the dojo, I thought I’d stop in and ask for directions.”

“You were *walking*? In this neighborhood, after dark?” Duncan said, at the exact same moment that Richie said: “*You* got lost?” Both Immortals looked shocked. 

Methos smiled at them both. “Being old doesn’t make you immune,” he said. “Especially not in a city like Seacouver, where the sky is always too damn cloudy to see the stars. I don’t know how you youngsters manage to find your way around at all. Not without the Big Dipper to guide you.”

Never underestimate the power of self deprecating humor. Richie guffawed loudly, his earlier tension dispersing like a cloud. MacLeod, who for a moment there had looked like he’d sat on a tack, chuckled too. When the Highlander brushed by the couch on the way to the kitchen, he placed a warm hand on Methos’s shoulder. The tingle the contact caused spread through Methos like the glow of a good scotch. “Stay for dinner,” MacLeod said. “Richie and I just ordered a huge amount of lasagna from that Italian restaurant down on Third. There will be more than plenty for you.”

And Methos, looking up into MacLeod’s welcoming brown eyes, agreed to stay.

***

It was an odd kind of dinner. Methos did his best to act like “just a guy” and put Richie at his ease. It was a plan that ultimately backfired, since by the end of the meal, Richie apparently felt comfortable enough around him to make several snide comments he never would have made if he’d known he was sitting across the table from Death. Methos let most of them go, but the ones that blatantly compared Methos unfavorably with the Messenger flicked on the raw, especially given what Joe had said about liking ‘the other Methos’ better. Methos called himself a cab and left as soon as he could, purposefully ignoring Duncan’s amused, indulgent smile as he walked out. Otherwise, he would have been seriously tempted to do something about Richie’s behavior. And in these modern times, murdering your fellow dinner guests had a way of offending even the most lenient of hosts…

But it was very strange. The evening had actually gone much better than he’d had any right to expect. As the meal had drawn to a close, Methos had been startled to feel the unspoken sexual tension between him and Duncan start to wane. He was still keenly aware of the Highlander’s presence, of every smile, every move, but instead of lust all the awareness brought was gentle glow of comfort. Could it be because this was the first time they’d really spent time together since he’d returned, and their imbalanced Quickenings had somehow equalized? Or was there another explanation? As the cab drove him through the rainy Seacouver streets, Methos pondered the matter seriously…than gave up and decided not to question it at all. Over the centuries, he’d learned that it was never a good idea to look a gift horse in the mouth. And given the kind of day he’d had, it was about time the gods had given him *some* kind of break.

And apparently they’d decided to take mercy on him in more ways than one, because when he returned to his hotel room, the message light was blinking on the phone. When he dialed in, Methos heard Joe’s voice, quietly requesting that Methos call him at the bar before closing. Methos hesitated just a moment, heartbeat quickening, then quickly punched in the bar’s number. “Got enough perspective yet?” he said tartly when Joe picked up.

“I suppose I deserve that,” Joe answered. “Hold on a moment. I need to switch to the phone in my office.” Methos heard a thump, then the busy sounds of the bar’s usual weeknight traffic, then finally another click and silence as Joe picked up his office phone. “How are you?” the mortal asked. “Besides being pissed at me, I mean.”

“Well, let’s take inventory,” Methos said coldly. “I’m tired, lonely, and very, very confused. Instead of spending the evening with the man I love, I’m sitting in what has to be the worst motel room in Seacouver, very grateful that I can’t actually die from any of the diseases I’m sure the place has given me. Why? How did you expect me to be?”

“Pretty much like that, I guess.” Joe sounded tired. “I’m sorry about the motel. I forgot it was SeaFest weekend. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to find a room.”

“How did you find me, anyway?”

“I’m the Watcher’s Northwest Coordinator, remember? I’ve got the phone numbers of all the hotels within cab distance of the bar memorized. I’ve had to put people up at all them, at one time or another. It was just a matter of going through the list and finding which one Adam Pierson had checked into.” Short pause. “At least you’re still using the same name this time.”

Ouch. “This time I wasn’t the one who decided to run away, Joe.”

“No. No, I guess you weren’t.” There was a long awkward pause. At last the barman cleared his throat. “Well, anyway,” Joe said. “I just wanted to tell you that Richie’s lived to fight another day. The Messenger’s dead. So is Culbraith.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“MacLeod told me.”

“Oh. I…I see.” Another pause, even longer and more awkward than the first. “So uh…you and Mac…”

“Don’t be an ass, Joe,” Methos said tiredly. “I’m *not* sleeping with him. If I was, I’d be staying at the loft taking advantage of his 600 count Egyptian cotton sheets instead of slumming it here. Did you really think I’d hop into bed with the man the moment you and I had a fight?” Joe stayed suspiciously silent. Methos sighed. “After I checked into this glorious place, I went for a walk,” he said. “I was upset. I got lost. When I finally realized I was within shouting distance of the dojo, MacLeod was home, and he’d just ordered take-out. So I decided to live up to my reputation as the world’s greatest Immortal mooch and eat some before I came back here. Richie was there the whole time, so we were perfectly well chaperoned. Any questions?”

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Joe said. He sounded just as weary as Methos felt. “Richie told you the whole story then? About Culbraith and the other you?”

“Pretty much,” Methos acknowledged. “Although I’m still a bit fuzzy as to how the kid managed to take Culbraith’s head when he’d sworn not to carry a sword. It didn’t seem quite polite to ask.”

“Oh. That’s easy,” Joe said. “Mac went straight to the Historic Society after he left us at the dojo, got there just as Richie was Challenged. He gave the kid his sword back. Just in the nick of time.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. Thanks to you.” Joe answered. He started speaking very quickly. “That’s the real reason I had to call you tonight, I guess. MacLeod won’t ever tell you, Methos, or at least I don’t think he will. But I will. If you hadn’t talked Mac into going after Richie when you did, Richie would be dead now. You saved his life.” Pause. “Again.”

“You mean that this calculating son of a bitch actually has his uses? I’m shocked.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Joe said in frustration. “Will you can it with the sarcasm for just ten minutes? If you do, you’ll realize that I’m trying to *apologize* to you, you arrogant bastard. Forget MacLeod. Forget Richie. I only called so I could say thank you, and tell you I was sorry. Now are you going to act your age and accept it? Or do I need to come over there and scream at you in person?”

And suddenly a world that had been nothing but shadows and despair was perfectly all right once again. *He still cares. He cares enough to be angry. We’re going to be okay.* “I almost wish you would,” Methos said. “This hotel room is a damned depressing place, Joe. I could really use you to cheer it up. And it would give me the chance to apologize to you, too.”

“What do you have to apologize for, old man?”

“I shouldn’t have let you walk off this afternoon the way I did,” Methos answered. “And I certainly shouldn’t have gotten so upset by what you said. After all, you were right. We have been moving rather quickly. I just…well, it’s like you told me, once upon a time. I may be 5,000 years old, but in a lot of ways I’m still a kid who assumes ‘We can’t see each other anymore’ actually means ‘I can’t stand the sight of you.’” He smiled sadly. “I tend to overreact a bit where you’re concerned, you see.”

Joe sounded confused. “Did I say that?”

“Didn’t you?” Methos was sure he could remember Joe saying just those words, in the basement of Shakespeare and Co. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? “Never mind. It must have been the Mirror Universe you or something. What I meant to say was…you matter to me, Joe. More than any human being has mattered to me in a very long time. And so when you pull away even a little bit I tend to think you’re rejecting me permanently. Which in turn makes me mean and sarcastic and thoroughly unpleasant to be around. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Joe sounded distant. “I know how that goes.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I do. Look, I…” Joe sounded frustrated. “I’m not rejecting you, Methos. You’re important to me, too. You always will be. I just think we should give each other a little more space. At least for now.”

“I see.” Methos bent his head, his disappointment feeling like a heavy weight around his neck. “And just how much space do you want, Joe? Should I go back to Paris, call you once a week?”

“No!” Joe exclaimed quickly, so quickly that Methos was relieved. Maybe things really were going to be all right, after all. “No,” Joe repeated more calmly. “I don’t want you on the other side of the world. But I don’t think I’m really ready to have you move in with me, either. Maybe…maybe you could get an apartment here in Seacouver? And then we could…”

“’Go out on some dates and get to know each other again,’” Methos quoted with a sigh. “Yes, so you said. It sounds like a reasonable plan. Not what I’d like, but…sensible. Wise.”

“Good. I think so, too.” The mortal hesitated, and then his voice came back much stronger. “So. As far as the getting to know each other part goes…”

Methos couldn’t restrain the leap of eagerness he felt. “Yes?”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

Methos smiled joyfully. “Are you asking me out on a date, Joe?”

“I suppose I am,” Joe said. “Listen, I won’t be behind the bar tomorrow—my bass guitarist cancelled, so I’ll have to be on stage playing backup. I thought maybe you could drop by early. The Chinese food you bought will be long gone by then, but we could order some pizza or something, and then you could stay for the show. Pretend to be a groupie. If you’re not doing anything more important, that is.”

Methos repressed a snort. The idea that he would have anything more important to do was ludicrous. But Joe was trying. Methos could tell by his voice that he was trying. *Cassie said it wouldn’t be easy,* Methos thought. *But she promised we would have our happy ending. I’ll just hang onto that.* “I don’t have to ‘pretend’ anything, Joe,” Methos said. “If you’re playing, wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Want me to bring a pizza by about seven?”

“Yeah.” Was he imaging it, or did Joe sound really relieved? “Yeah, that would be great.” Methos smiled into the phone. “Look, I really am sorry about the motel,” Joe continued after a moment. “I know I didn’t give you a whole lot of notice to find a place. I’ll use my connections to get you into somewhere better tomorrow. At least until you can find something to rent.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Methos said dismissively. “Ignore what I said about the diseases. I’m sarcastic and unpleasant when I’m hurt, remember? The room isn’t that bad, not really. Just lonely.” Joe was quiet, and Methos softened his voice. “If it makes us stronger in the end, it’s worth it. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Joe sounded gruff. “Yeah, I know. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow it is.”

***

The next night turned out to be Amateur Night at Joe’s Bar…or no, amateur didn’t really describe it, not really. It was more an opportunity for all the young musicians Joe had met over the last few years to get together and play, to gain some valuable performance experience under the watchful eye of the master. The group of musicians Joe had assembled that night were all very young, very bright, and very talented…and very, very hungry, as Methos discovered the moment he walked in the door. The second he arrived, Methos was instantly hailed as The Holy Bringer of Pizza and fallen upon as devotedly as a god distributing manna. As the crowd of hungry young people swarmed over him and demolished the slices Joe raised his eyebrows apologetically, but Methos really didn’t mind. He just did his best to keep his feet, then called up the pizza place for a second order. He’d hoped for some time alone with Joe, but it was pointless being selfish. Besides, the cost of three extra-large pizzas seemed more than a fair price to see Joe so happy.

And happy he was. It was plain to Methos from the first moment on that Joe was in his element. At first he thought it was just because Joe loved being surrounded by musicians of any kind, but when the bar opened and the kids took the stage, Methos quickly realized it was more than that. Joe wasn’t just the kids’ backup man. He was their teacher, and Methos was astounded to discover that Joe was a natural for the role. Joe handled the group of uncertain youngsters with consummate ease, making sure each performer got some time to solo in front of the crowd—and Methos noted that each solo had been thoughtfully chosen to showcase the performer’s talents, rather than his or her deficiencies. When each soloist finished, Joe gave him or her an approving nod which made the young faces glow even more than the audience’s applause. *He’s really, really good at this,* Methos thought, slightly saddened that he’d never seen this side of his lover before. *No wonder he cares so much about Richie. He’d make a wonderful father, and adopting wayward Immortals is about as close as he’s ever going to get to being the real thing. Oh, Joe. You’re right, we still do have a lot to learn about each other. I’ll have to pay more attention…*

He was watching Joe play a duet with a young Irish American fiddler, listening to the approving buzz of the crowd, when a different kind of buzz filled his ears: Duncan MacLeod had arrived. Joe’s relief bartender handed the Highlander a scotch, and then Duncan came to stand at Methos’s elbow. “Methos,” he said politely.

“MacLeod,” Methos returned. He returned his attention to the stage, where Joe and the fiddler were seriously tearing up a traditional jig. When they finally took a short break and the crowd erupted into applause, Methos spoke. “How’s Richie?”

“Gone,” Duncan answered. “Took off on his motorcycle yesterday. Right after you left, as a matter of fact. Said he just wanted to drive for a while and think.”

“The modern American vision quest?”

“Something like that,” Duncan answered. “Don’t look so disdainful. You’re the one who just got back from Nepal.”

“So I did,” Methos agreed mildly. Duncan looked surprised, clearly have expected something more sarcastic by way of a reply, but Methos wasn’t in the mood for an argument. They stood in silence for a while, watching the milling crowd. Then Duncan spoke quietly. “You know, Richie really wasn’t very nice to you, right before you left,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Methos raised his eyebrows. In his mind he once again heard Richie’s last remarks: “I don’t know much about the other Methos, but at least I know *he* was a good man” and “Old Timer! Got any words of wisdom for me?” Yes, “not very nice” was definitely an appropriate phrase. He was just surprised that MacLeod cared enough to mention it. “He’s young,” Methos said after a moment’s thought. “And I’ve already proven that I know better than he does twice. That’s an unforgivable sin, where the young are concerned.” Duncan looked unhappy, but he nodded. Methos gazed at the stage, where Joe was getting re-settled in his chair. Apparently, it was the tradition that after the students finished for the night, The Master got a half-hour of mike time to himself. Methos could hardly wait. “Give Richie a couple of centuries to mature,” he told MacLeod. “He’ll probably turn out to be a decent human being in the end.”

Duncan smiled wryly. “Such optimism.”

“Well, I’m in an optimistic mood,” Methos answered. “But I meant what I said. This time on the road will probably help him quite a bit. Although it’s a strange thing about vision quests.” Methos’s eyes settled on Joe, the way the spotlights formed a ring of radiance in the graying hair, and the beautiful way Joe’s dark sweater made his gifted hands stand out in stark relief. “You leave your life behind, go someplace completely alien and exotic in an attempt to find what you’ve been missing. Only to discover that what you need most is usually in the place you ran from in the first place.”

If it hadn’t been so noisy, Methos might have heard the Highlander’s breath catch. “And have you found what you were looking for?”

“You know, I really think I have.” Methos said. On stage, Joe was re-adjusting the mike. He struck one chord to test, and the sound reverberated throughout the bar, hushing the crowd. At that moment, Methos had no ill will left in him for any man or beast. He looked at Duncan through the smoky air and saw the Highlander’s eyes focused on him intently, but once again, Methos felt no lustful tingle. All he felt was the same deep sense of well-being he’d first noticed in the loft. Methos lowered his voice. “We going to be okay with each other, Highlander?”

“Yeah.” Duncan’s voice was soft and gruff. “Yeah, I really think we are.” He cleared his throat, and raised his glass in Joe’s direction. “To Holy Ground. And the truces we find there.”

Methos smiled, and touched the Highlander’s glass with his own. “Yes. To Holy Ground.”

Neither man noticed Joe watching them from the stage, or the sad, pained look he momentarily wore. Then he ran a rough hand across his eyes, put on his best show face, and signaled the band to begin.

***

A week passed, then two, then three. By the time November’s brisk clean air had given way to December’s constant chilly drizzle, Methos had become sure of two things. One, “slow down and take things easy” had become his least favorite phrase in the entire English language. Two, he really, really *hated* hotels. Joe had kept his word and gotten him into a much better place than the Island Breeze, but despite the presence of high quality chocolates on his pillow ever morning, Methos still chafed against the arrangement. He hated having to make appointments to see his beloved. And he hated returning to the lonely room alone at the end of a “date night” even more. 

But, hard as it was, Methos saw the wisdom in it. In some ways, he was getting the opportunity to do what he should have done all along. He was getting the chance to court Joe as Methos, hiding nothing, being completely himself. It was a bittersweet gift. Sometimes he’d catch Joe staring at him as if he’d become a complete stranger, and Methos would shrivel inside as he wondered if The Real Him would ever be good enough. But there were other times, too. Times when Joe would look at him across the room while he played or times when they both laughed at the same moment and it would be…not quite like the old days, not exactly, but close enough to give Methos hope. Over and over he recited Cassie’s words to him in his head: “Joe’s been hurt. You’ve abandoned him twice now. It’ll take him some time to trust that you’re not about to do it again” and so Methos did what he could to earn that trust. He dutifully started looking for an apartment and a job nearby, put a down payment on a huge gas guzzling American SUV, and showed up at the bar every night with food whether Joe was playing or not. Joe never asked him back to his duplex afterwards, and physically the most Methos ever got was a distracted goodnight kiss, but that was all right. Methos was certain it was all going to work out for the best.

There was just one problem. And it was a great big pony-tail-wearing problem by the name of Duncan MacLeod. 

Methos knew he was being petty. He really should be grateful that seeing the Highlander no longer made him yearn for a cold shower—whatever miracle had occurred to lesson the sexual tension between them, it seemed to be holding. Nevertheless, Methos was getting very, very tired of the man’s existence. Because it seemed that everywhere he and Joe went, Duncan was sure to follow. And Methos was beginning to wonder why.

It was one thing to keep running into him at the bar. After all, Joe’s had the best beer and the best music in town, and with Richie gone Duncan was probably feeling at loose ends. It made sense to keep seeing him there. But then Duncan had started “just happening” to show up at all the other places Methos and Joe went together, and Methos had started getting suspicious. The fish and chip shop on Aspen street. The Museum of Native American Antiquities off Third. The open air blues concert at the park. When Methos looked up from his seat at the sold-out Fellini retrospective to see MacLeod smiling and waving from the aisle, suspicion became outright paranoia. Was that weird Immortal homing signal that had brought them together in Paris going haywire, leading Duncan to subconsciously follow Methos wherever he went? Or was something else going on in that strange Highland mind? As the saying went: once was clearly an accident; twice could be dismissed as coincidence. But three times was enemy action.

The worst thing about it, though, was the way Joe reacted. Far from minding the Highlander’s intrusions, Joe actually seemed to welcome them. He’d call out to the Scot and invite him to join them even when they could have escaped unseen, leaving Methos in a heck of a catch 22. On the one hand, he was very glad to see that Duncan and Joe were again on such good terms. Methos wasn’t an idiot. He knew what Duncan’s friendship meant to Joe. He was glad and relieved, if a bit puzzled, to see that Joe’s jealousy was no longer getting in the way of that friendship. But it did make things difficult for Methos. Joe’s obvious happiness at Duncan’s presence made it impossible for Methos to object to it. Nor, until the day came that Joe agreed it was time to come out to Duncan about their relationship, could Methos tell Duncan to buzz off, stop acting like a third wheel. So he ended up gritting his teeth whenever Duncan showed up unexpectedly. And did his best to act as if all was well. 

But it was difficult, keeping up the act, and Methos let it slip altogether during the Charlie Desalvo Memorial Boxing Tournament. Methos had been in a bad mood from the start. Joe hadn’t told him they were going to a boxing match that day; all he’d said was that the bar was supporting a local charity event, and he wanted Methos to be his date. Methos, who had been expecting a benefit concert in the park or possibly a school carnival or some such thing, had been extremely annoyed to learn the truth. There was very little in this world he hated more than live boxing. The hot press of bodies and the bloodlust of the crowd always reminded him uncomfortably of the Roman Coliseum, giving him flashbacks to the days when these events would end with bloody entrails strewn over the earth instead of a ten second knock out. Methos had felt sick to his stomach from the moment the first punch was thrown. And *then* along came MacLeod, eyes bright and clearly relishing the spectacle. He’d squeezed himself next to Methos on the bench with a distracted greeting, not even bothering to ask if Methos minded. Methos stood it with as much grace as he could—up until the end of the first match, when Duncan got up to get popcorn. Then he turned on Joe. “Did you know *he* was going to be here?” Methos demanded.

“Who? Mac?” Methos nodded, face tight. Joe looked puzzled. “Yeah, of course I did. It’s Charlie’s memorial, isn’t it? MacLeod kicked in ninety percent of the funding. Why wouldn’t he be here?”

“Because--” Methos started. A group of boxing fans pushed down the aisle, some calling out greetings to Joe. Methos pasted on a bright smile until they disappeared, then hissed to Joe in a harsh whisper. “I thought this was a date.”

“Yeah, of course it is. So?”

“MacLeod’s here!”

“And that’s a problem why, exactly?”

“It doesn’t bother you that every time we go somewhere to be alone together, MacLeod shows up ten minutes later?” Methos dropped his voice lower still. “Honestly, Joe. For a man who was so convinced just three weeks ago that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, you’re taking his presence pretty calmly.”

“Oh god,” Joe groaned. “Do you *really* want to have this conversation here?” Methos nodded tightly, folding his arms over his chest. Joe sighed. “Look, Mac’s here today because he’s a sponsor. He’s going to be busy meeting and greeting other fans, trying to secure the funding to make this an annual event. It’s not like he’s going to spend the whole afternoon sitting with us.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Reasonably,” Joe said, annoyingly calm. “Look, what’s your problem? Coming here today wasn’t part of some great conspiracy. We’ve been doing a lot of the things you like lately…”

Methos felt stung. “I thought you liked the museums. And the Fellini.”

“I did. I do. And I’m looking forward to using those Seacouver Symphony tickets you got for the day after tomorrow, too. It’s just—there’s more to my personality than that, you know? I thought we could spend an afternoon doing something I liked for once, something that Joe’s Bar sponsored. Mac happens to be here, too.” Joe turned back to the ring. “That’s all there is to it.”

Methos wanted to continue arguing. But Duncan returned, popcorn in hand, and for the rest of the afternoon he proceeded to horn in on their date quite unashamedly, ignoring all of Methos’s subtle hints. *So much for circulating in search of financial support,* Methos thought sullenly, munching on his truly awful ringside snack while Joe and Mac bantered back and forth, critiquing the boxers’ technique and comparing them to famous athletes of the past. *But at least Joe’s having a good time.* Methos decided to let the two friends chat unhindered, contenting himself with only the odd sarcastic remark…until the presence of another Immortal swept over him. MacLeod felt it, too. They both stiffened at the exact same moment, eyes sweeping the crowd. “I don’t believe it,” MacLeod said softly.

Methos followed his gaze. MacLeod was staring at a tall dark haired woman, much too well dressed for the occasion. She looked back, first at MacLeod, then at Methos, and despite the distance Methos saw the cold, evaluating glance of a long-time veteran of the Game. He shivered. “Time to go,” he said.

MacLeod looked hurt. “She’s a friend,” he protested.

*I’m not surprised,* Methos thought sourly. *‘Friend’, indeed. Long legs, pert breasts, pouting lips…has there ever been a female Immortal of that description that you *haven’t* tumbled, MacLeod? You are so damn predictable, sometimes.* “Yes, well, when they carry a sword and we haven’t been introduced, I get shy,” Methos said aloud, getting to his feet. “Joe, are you coming?”

Joe clearly didn’t want to leave the match. But he climbed to his feet and followed Methos anyway…at least until they reached the lobby. Then Joe suddenly doubled back, limping to the auditorium’s other entrance where he squatted down, hiding his body behind the door. “What on earth are you doing?” Methos demanded.

“What does it look like?” Joe said. “I’m Mac’s Watcher. I’m Watching.” Methos made a wordless sound of disgust. Joe shot him a dirty look. “Come on. Don’t you want to know who the bombshell is?”

“Honestly? No. Not in the slightest.” Joe just rolled his eyes and continued his surveillance. Methos sighed and joined him, crouching at his side. Duncan had left the bleachers and was standing in front of the Beautiful Unknown, holding her hands, gazing deeply into her eyes. Methos could only see the female Immortal from the back, but it was enough to get a view of a waterfall of dark hair and a very nicely shaped rear end. He glanced at Joe, who appeared to be staring with more than Watcher-ly interest. “You really think she’s a bombshell?”

“Well, yeah,” Joe said in a “duh” tone of voice. “Look at her.”

“I am looking,” Methos said archly. “Typical MacLeod-style anorexic bimbo, I’d say. And an inferior one, at that. Amanda has ten times this woman’s style.” Joe rolled his eyes. Methos frowned. “Seriously, you don’t really think she’s that good looking, do you?”

Joe shot him an exasperated look. “I don’t think she’s prettier than you, if that’s what you’re really asking,” he said. “Now hush up, before they hear you.”

“That’s not what I--” Methos began. Joe shushed him again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Joe! They’re not going to hear me. They’re clearly lost in happy land. You can practically hear the ‘Theme from Love Story’ swelling in the background. A bomb could go off and they wouldn’t notice.”

“You have a point,” Joe said grudgingly. “Ah, good. They’re moving. Turn around now, sweetheart…let Uncle Joe get a good look at your face, so he can write you up for Duncan’s Chronicle…” The woman’s profile came into view, then her entire face. Joe went stock still. “Oh my god,” he said. “That’s Ingrid Henning.”

Methos’s head snapped up. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah. I know. I suppose it makes sense that she would turn up here eventually. You’ve read Mac’s Chronicle. You know that she and Mac worked together during World War Two…uh oh!” Joe fell back, pulling Methos behind a vending machine. A moment later Methos saw why. Several uniformed police officers had just entered the lobby. 

Ingrid saw them, too. She said something to MacLeod, then strode toward the auditorium wall with a purposeful stride. “Oh shit,” said Joe, rather dazedly, watching as Ingrid pulled the fire alarm and the entire building erupted into chaos. “I think we have a problem.”

And Methos, staring at the most notorious female Immortal since Kristin, couldn’t help but agree.

***

*Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.*

Joe had dialed his cell phone before they even reached his car, invoking emergency privilege to have Ingrid’s complete files delivered to the bar from the Seacouver archives ASAP. By the time they reached the bar, the special courier was waiting, bearing three overflowing fie boxes that made Methos’s heart sink due to the sheer amount of paper they held. Joe unloaded the files from the first box with a very grim face, making the distinctive thwacking sound as he smacked each over-loaded folder down onto the bar. “All these files can’t be Ingrid’s,” Methos said in disbelief. “She’s less than a century old, Joe.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a busy century,” Joe said. “Especially since the end of World War Two. We’ve got paperwork on every political assassination and every terrorist attack she engineered from 1945 to 1985.” Methos shook his head, feeling awed. Joe grimaced. “That’s not the worst of it, though. The *worst* of it is, we don’t have anything more current than 1985. God only knows what she’s been up to since then.”

“We lost track of her?”

“No. We voted to put her on the ‘too dangerous to Watch’ list. Ingrid’s last field agent died in that bus bombing she orchestrated in Olympia, and it was pretty obvious even before then that Ingrid was getting twitchy about people following her. We didn’t want to risk anybody else.” Joe looked sad. “I was part of that council meeting, as the local Area Supervisor. I cast the deciding vote. I wish I hadn’t now. If we’d kept an agent on her, we might have had some warning now.”

Methos touched his arm. “You had to protect your people,” he said gently. Joe nodded unhappily and looked away. Methos reached for a file. “So we’ve got a gap of more than ten years,” he said. “Any idea what’s brought her back to town now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, let’s get to work then. I’ll start going through the files. You take a look at the local papers, find out what the local political news is. Maybe we can figure it out.”

They spent the night doing just that, working side by side with a large pot of coffee. By the time midnight came, they were no closer to an answer. Methos rested his head on a stack of files, determined to rest his eyes for just a moment…and woke to Joe gently shaking his shoulder. Bright light was flooding the bar, and when Methos looked in the mirror over the bar he could see the red outline of a plastic file tab embedded in his cheek. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like we ended up pulling an all-nighter.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Joe had great big circles under his eyes, and his rumpled clothes and hair gave evidence of his having fallen asleep at the table, too. “I was going to just let you sleep for an hour and send you home, but then I conked out myself.”

“I don’t mind,” Methos answered. “First time I’ve had a chance to spend the night with you in weeks.” Joe flushed and looked away. Methos sighed and rubbed at his face. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight.”

“We know anything more about Ingrid?”

“Not a thing.” A shadow crossed over Joe’s face. “I’ve been trying to call Mac off and on since it got light. I haven’t been able to get through.”

“You’re worried for him, huh.”

“Yeah. I certainly wish he’d answered his phone.” Joe drummed his finger on the bar. “There were an awful lot of police cars, Methos.”

“I know,” Methos agreed. “Who’s Watching Duncan these days while you’re working at the bar? Can you get a report from him?”

“I haven’t had a secondary agent on Mac since you got back from Nepal,” Joe said heavily. “Just because…well. Just because.”

“Just because why?”

“Just in case you ever decided you wanted to go back to work for the Watchers,” Joe answered. “I thought it might be awkward for Adam Pierson to have been seen in Mac’s company. I mean, I’ve been given special dispensation to maintain contact with him, but you…well, you know.”

Methos’s eyes widened. After Horton, the Watcher Council had reluctantly agreed to let Joe maintain his relationships with his Immortal friends…but it was a limited dispensation, good for one person only. And Adam Pierson was still technically listed as AWOL. Getting his job back—if he wanted it, Methos honestly hadn’t considered it one way or another—was going to involve a lot of groveling and some hefty disciplinary action as it was. Being seen with Mac would complicate things considerably. “I do know,” Methos said softly. “And I thank you.” Joe nodded distractedly. “Shall I point out that you’re probably worrying for nothing? Unlike Kristin, Ingrid knows her limitations. She’s very unlikely to Challenge a warrior of Duncan’s strength.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Then what?”

“I’m just scared for him, that’s all. Mac never takes it well when he runs across former friends who have…changed. And Ingrid’s changed a lot since World War II. Changed about as much as a person can.” Joe shifted nervously. “I don’t think Mac has any idea what she’s become. He’s not a Watcher, and Ingrid’s been…careful. She’s never been arrested, or made a single newspaper headline.”

“Well, the police swarming over the Community Center might have given him a clue,” Methos said. “But you’re right. Duncan does tend to have a blind spot a mile wide where old friends are concerned.” He stood up, yawned, and reached for his coat. “Right. I’d best be off, then.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Watch MacLeod for you.”

“*You* are going to Watch Mac?”

“Why not? I *did* pass my field agent training at the Academy, Joe.”

“Yeah. I know.” Joe suddenly looked curious. “How did you manage that, anyway? Given that your test subject would have been able to feel you coming?”

Methos look sheepish. “Well, first I made sure that I ‘lost’ the coin toss and was given Old Lady Myrtle as a subject,” he said. “Then I had Darius call her—he and Myrtle were old friends. She never let on that she felt my presence as a favor to him.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Old Lady Myrtle *knew* about the Watchers?”

“Joe. You think she failed to notice the hordes of tattooed youngsters that started tramping through her garden and peering into her windows every spring? Of course she knew. Myrtle was in on it since the nineteen twenties, at least. She always said she felt bad that she couldn’t invite the kids in for tea without giving up the game.” Methos saddened. “She was a great lady, Joe. She deserved better than Horton.”

“So did a lot of people,” Joe answered gruffly. He gave Methos a considering look. “So. You’re actually volunteering to go spy on Mac.”

Methos shrugged. “In a limited sense,” he said. “If I don’t feel Ingrid, I’ll probably just barge right in and use my charm to find out what’s going on. See what he told her, if he knows why she’s in town. You know the drill.” Joe still looked doubtful. “Joe, I do know what I’m doing. Besides, I know you. You’re going to be *very* poor company until you know exactly what’s happening. And I want all your attention when we go to the symphony tomorrow night.”

“Hmmm.” Joe still didn’t look pleased, and for a second Methos had the impression that his beloved had something disturbing on his mind, something that had nothing to do with Ingrid Henning. But then Joe nodded, and the moment passed. “All right then. Off you go. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Just be careful.”

“I always am.”

***

It was almost fun, pretending to be a proper Field Agent again. Methos swathed himself in his coat and stood in the phone booth across the street from Mac’s loft for a good half hour, painstakingly (and sarcastically) noting the lack of activity in a little notebook every five minutes. His amusement lasted until his stomach started grumbling, at which point he decided that one *could* carry a joke too far. He put his notebook away and climbed the back stairs to the loft. 

MacLeod opened the door on his first knock. "What took you so long?" he asked. "I thought you were going to hang around inside that phone booth forever. What were you trying to do, anyway, memorize the telephone directory?"

Startled, Methos said the first thing that came into his head. "I was trying to be discrete," he lied. "You know. In case you had company.” MacLeod rolled his eyes, and Methos's curiosity got the better of him. "How did you know I was there, anyway? I purposefully picked a spot you couldn’t see from the loft windows, and I made sure to stay out of sensing range. I didn't want to make your guest uncomfortable if she'd stayed overnight.”

"I always know when you're around," was MacLeod's cryptic answer. "And Ingrid's not like that, Methos."

"Not like what?"

"Not like whatever it is that’s going through that evil old mind of yours. Ingrid's just a friend. She always has been.” MacLeod grabbed his leather jacket and stepped out onto the stoop, closing the door behind him. "Come on. Let's get some breakfast."

They ate at a little mom-and-pop donut shop three streets over. Methos, who was more shaken than he wanted to admit—could Duncan really sense him even when he was too far away to sense the Highlander?—made sure that they stayed on neutral subjects during the meal, not bringing up Ingrid at all. It wasn’t until they were walking back that Methos casually asked: "So, what happened to your 'friend'?"

"She left."

"Didn't stay long," Methos observed, and walked over to a set of newspaper racks that were sitting next to the sidewalk. *Ah, the humble daily newspaper,* he thought to himself as he bought one. *Useful for so many things. You can buy a fresh one for your lover so the two of you can continue trying to discover why the world's most prolific political assassin is in town, and you can also hide behind one while you oh-so-casually interrogate your friends. One of the world's better inventions.* Methos rustled the paper, to all outward appearances completely absorbed in the contents. "She mention why the police were after her?"

"They were just there to tie up some loose ends."

"With five patrol cars and ten uniforms? That's a lot of manpower just to tie up a few loose ends."

"You're an old cynic."

"I try...oh, look at this!” What did you know. The paper was going to be useful for more than Ingrid Watching and MacLeod Interrogating, after all. "There's an exhibition of Greek antiquities."

MacLeod made a face. "Oh yeah, can't wait,” he said. “A 2,500 year old garage sale."

"Listen, some of this stuff could be mine,” Methos answered. And even if it wasn't, it would still be a fun place to take Joe, share a bit more of his past. He was just wondering which of his Grecian possessions would be the most fun to see again when Duncan suddenly snatched the paper right out of his hands. "Hey!” Methos protested testily. “I believe the phrase is, ‘Would you mind if I borrowed your newspaper?’”

MacLeod was very pale. "Damn it," he said under his breath, and started to stride hurriedly away. He crumpled the paper in his hands as he went, dropping it to the ground.

"MacLeod!"

"It's Ingrid," Duncan shouted over his shoulder. "Alan Wilkinson...The New Freedom Party…”

“MacLeod?”

“I don’t have time to explain now! I’ve got to stop her, before… oh, damn. Look, I’ll see you at Joe’s later, okay?” Duncan broke into a run and disappeared. 

Methos retrieved the abandoned newspaper, quickly smoothing out the page Duncan had found so disturbing. Right at the top was a large, red-white-and-blue ad for the New Freedom Party—and its annual fascist rally that would be taking place at the Community Center the next day, complete with infamous presidential candidate Alan Wilkinson. Uh-oh. It looked like they had struck pay dirt. Methos tucked the paper under his arm and made his way to the nearest phone booth. “It’s me, Joe. I know why Ingrid’s in town.”

“Lay it on me.”

“There’s going to be a big political rally at the Community Center tomorrow night. A speaker named Alan Wilkinson…”

“I’ve heard of him,” Joe said grimly. “You think he’s Ingrid’s next target?”

“Why else would she have been at the Center yesterday? I seriously doubt she’s a fan of the Seacouver boxing scene, Joe. She had to have been casing the place.”

“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “That makes sense. Where’s MacLeod?”

“Took off like a bat out of hell the moment he found out about the rally. Mumbled something about trying to stop her.”

“You'd better come back to the bar."

"Ten minutes. I'll bring you a donut."

***

Joe was on the phone when Methos returned. Methos sat his burden of pastry and coffee on the bar and shamelessly listened in—hearing Joe’s voice get more and more strained as he said things like: “Yes sir. I know sir. I just thought that…” and “Of course not, sir. It’s just that I—” before he finally hung up. “That had to be Watcher HQ,” Methos said when he did. He couldn’t imagine anybody else that Joe would call ‘sir’.

“Yeah. It sure was.” Joe gave the phone a look of pure bitterness. “They wanted to remind me to be true to my oath.”

“They thought that was necessary?”

“Given *my* history? Yeah. Yeah, they did.” Joe sat down heavily in a chair. “I’m not to interfere with Ingrid in any way. I’m not even allowed to assign a Watcher to follow her. And I’m supposed to warn any agent following MacLeod to use extreme caution while Mac is in Ingrid’s company.” Joe’s eyes flickered over to Methos, dark and inscrutable. “So I guess that means you.”

“How nice of headquarters to care,” Methos said dryly. He sat down in the chair opposite Joe and, eyeing the mortal carefully, shoved Joe’s donut at him across the table. “Did you tell them our suspicions about the assassination?"

"Of course. You know what they told me."

"’Don't get involved. Observe and record.’"

"Exactly.” Joe fidgeted unhappily. "God. Sometimes I really hate this job. Knowing that somebody's about to get murdered, and not being able to do anything to stop it..."

"The age old Watcher's dilemma," Methos said. "Yes. Yes, I know.” Joe nodded glumly. Methos watched him poke at his donut, picking at the icing without actually eating anything. He took a breath. "That doesn't mean you can't call in an anonymous tip to the local police."

Joe's head snapped up so quickly Methos was worried about whiplash. "Do you think that would help?"

"Do you want my honest opinion?” Joe nodded. Methos shook his head. “No,” he answered. “It might slow Ingrid down for a day or two. But we both know there's really only one way to stop her."

"MacLeod."

"Or another Immortal with a sword.”

“Yeah, but what are the chances of her meeting up with a competent Challenger before tomorrow night?” Methos just waited, hands calmly in his lap, for the penny to drop. When it did, Joe shook his head frantically. “Oh, no. Not you. I’m not risking you.”

"I did a lot of training in Nepal, Joe. I’m stronger now than I have been for centuries. I can take Ingrid Henning.”

“Of course you can. That’s what fucking worries me,” Joe snapped. “Did your training include learning how to take Quickenings without being unconscious for four days and nights? And without losing your memory afterwards?”

“I—“ 

Methos squirmed. He suddenly realized that, in all the time he’d spent training with Cassie, she hadn’t said one word about the trouble he’d had absorbing Kristin’s Quickening. Why not? Surely the girl would have warned him if the same thing was going to happen again…wouldn’t she? “My Teacher taught me a lot about energy flows, Joe,” he said evasively, chilled by the thought that Cassie could have had trained him so thoroughly just to set him up for another disaster. “I’m more rooted now. More grounded…”

“Yeah,” Joe growled. “‘Grounded’ is a good word. Consider yourself grounded, young man—no more Challenges for you. I’m not risking you unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Joe drummed his fingers in a quick, angry staccato on the tabletop, than gave Methos a sharp glance. “What the hell are you doing volunteering, anyway? I thought your modus operandi for the last several millennia was ‘don’t get involved’. I know you don’t give a damn if Ingrid keeps killing or not. And you certainly don’t care about Wilkinson.”

There was a note of challenge in Joe’s words that made Methos’s hackles rise. So they were back to this, were they? “No,” Methos agreed, making a great effort to keep his own voice level. “If you must know, I don’t. From my point of view, dictators come and dictators go with depressing regularity. So do their assassins. But I care about *you*, Joe. Specifically, I care about what happens to your psychological balance if Ingrid’s next target gives a speech on a school playground and Ingrid decides that killing a hundred freckle-faced youngsters is acceptable collateral damage. I don’t want you going the way of Kristin’s Watcher Stevenson.”

Joe was quiet for a long time, and Methos was startled to see something that looked like guilt in his eyes. “Thank you,” Joe said at last. “That…means a lot. But I’m not Stevenson, Methos. I’ve come to terms with what my Oath does and doesn’t let me do.”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” Joe said fiercely, glare just daring Methos to question it. After a moment, Methos nodded and looked away. “Anyway,” Joe continued in a more conversational tone. “It’s a moot point. I’m not risking you. So I guess we’re just going to have to hope that MacLeod gets over his never-kill-a-former-lover thing in time to do what must be done.”

“Ingrid was never Duncan’s lover, Joe. Just a good friend.”

“How on earth do you know that?”

“Because he told me so, earlier this morning. I can’t imagine why he’d lie.”

“Can’t you?” Joe said snarkily, and when Methos looked at him in confusion the musician just shoved back his chair and stood up. “Never mind. Look, I’ve got stuff to do in my office. Try not to drink all my beer if you stay.”

And he limped off to his office, leaving Methos feeling quite dismissed. For a moment Methos contemplated going after him…but they’d played this scene often enough in the past. Pressing Joe to talk when he was worried like this about a member of his Immortal family would only lead to more arguments. No. Methos’s eyes narrowed with determination. The thing to do was to get to work and take care of the situation. 

Before Ingrid killed again and caused Joe’s already overburdened psyche to snap.

***

By the time Duncan had arrived a few hours later, upset and shaken by his latest confrontation with Ingrid, Methos had a plan. According to Duncan, Ingrid hadn’t just refused to give up her plot: she’s also shoved a gun into Duncan’s hands in front of the police, deliberately framing Duncan in order to get him out of the way. Methos listened, very calmly and intently, while Duncan expressed his confusion and hurt over this…and then he laughed. Cruelly, deliberately, every note designed to be the most mocking, soul-lashing laughter Methos could devise. When Joe asked what was so funny, and Methos answered: “MacLeod. Tussling with another one of his moral dilemmas,” he saw that his mockery had hit its target. Duncan gave him an angry look and turned away, irritation plain. “You know, there are times when I really don’t like you,” the Highlander muttered darkly. 

“That’s all right,” Methos answered, suddenly completely serious. “There are times when I really don’t like myself.” It was true. There were times when Methos really didn’t like this side of his own nature, the part that could manipulate another’s emotions as easily as he could breathe. But it had to be done. For Joe’s sake, Ingrid had to be taken care of. And right now, MacLeod had to be the one to do it…at least until Methos had time to evaluate his own vulnerabilities, and Cassie’s annoying habit of not telling the whole truth. So he steeled his nerves and got to work. 

The devil had never had such a dedicated advocate. For the next half hour, Methos goaded and attacked the Highlander’s damn ethical naiveté at every turn, systematically tearing down every single argument Duncan had built up in Ingrid’s defense. Methos was a bit surprised that Joe didn’t step in to stop him, given the nastiness of some of his attacks. But Joe hung back, only speaking when spoken to directly, and Methos suspected that the mortal understood exactly what Methos was trying to do. When Duncan, frustration evident, finally said: “None of this matters. In her heart, Ingrid thinks she’s right. And I don’t know how to stop her,” and Methos coldly answered “Don’t you?” Methos became sure of it. Duncan stormed out, and Joe didn’t take Methos to task over his cruelty. Instead he just shook his head, giving Methos a look that was almost admiring. “You know, you really can be an arrogant pain in the ass sometimes,” he said.

“Guilty as charged,” Methos answered. “He’s got to learn, Joe. If he keeps expecting old friends to still be the decent people he remembers, and is willing to tie himself into emotional knots in order to avoid seeing what they’ve become, he’s not going to make it to his five hundredth birthday.” Methos tossed back the rest of his drink and stood up. “I’d better go after him.”

“Yeah. I guess you’d better,” Joe said, with an undercurrent of sadness Methos didn’t understand. He glanced at his lover sharply, but the Watcher’s face was inscrutable. “Keep me posted.”

“I always do.”

Much to Methos’s consternation, his cab pulled up to the dojo just in time to see a handcuffed Duncan MacLeod being pushed into a police car by several uniformed officers. Oh, no no no. This wouldn’t do at all. How could Duncan take Ingrid’s head if the police had him locked away? Methos got the cabbie to follow the police cars at a discrete distance down to the station, then got out and started flirting shamelessly with the young female desk sergeant—with the result that everyone in the station somehow got the impression that Methos was Duncan’s lawyer. After that, it was simply a matter of throwing around some American legal-ese he’d picked up during the 1940’s and presto, the Highlander was walking free. Duncan glowered considerably when he saw Methos lounging against the desk, but he kept quiet until they left the station, Methos smiling charmingly at all and sundry. “Well,” Methos said pointedly, the moment they were through the doors. “That went well.”

“Since when are you my attorney?” Duncan demanded.

“Hey, I can be whatever you need. Lawyer, doctor, Indian Chief…I’ve got paperwork to cover it all.” And he did, too, just not here. Most of his alternate identity paperwork was still in a safe deposit box in Paris. Fortunately, today the smile and the fancy legal words had been enough. “Ah, Mac? Cab.”

They started walking towards the waiting vehicle. Methos rubbed his hands together briskly. “So,” he said brightly. “Watcher records are a little sketchy on our lady…” *well, after 1985 anyway, but if I tell you what we had on her before that you’d never believe me. One step at a time.* “So I had to check with the desk sergeant while I was waiting.”

“Then you know that Ingrid’s committed at least 15 murders in the last ten years.”

“Which leaves about 40 years unaccounted for,” Methos replied dryly. “The mind boggles.”

“Who’s to say she’s not right?” Duncan stopped walking. “Maybe…maybe the people she killed deserved to die.”

Methos’s eyebrows shot up. Oh, dear. He hadn’t thought Mac had wandered this far onto the paths of self-delusion. “So this is the angle now,” he said tauntingly. “The end justifies the means? It’s not very original.”

“She believes she’s making the world a better place.”

“Mac, that’s exactly what *he* believed. Remember? What was his name? Adolf something-or-other?”

Mac’s face flushed angrily, but Methos could tell he’d made his point. “Adolf something-or-other,” Duncan repeated. “I don’t believe you.”

“You believe it, you just don’t want to hear it,” Methos answered. Duncan shook his head in disgust and strode off. Methos hurried to catch up with him. Very well. He’d used the stick to great effect, both here and at Joe’s. Now it was time for the carrot. “Seriously Mac—Duncan,” he said in a low voice, with a gentleness that he very rarely used. “Don’t let the love of an old friend talk you into being less than you are.”

MacLeod stopped in his tracks, turned to face him with a frown. “And just what do you think I am, Methos?” he said curiously. “I think I’d really like to know.”

“You’re Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He of the sterling honor and moral code,” Methos answered staunchly. “Don’t let Ingrid compromise that, Mac. It’s never worth it, in the end.”

“You’re the one who’s always telling me to ignore my moral code!”

“I’m always telling you to revise it,” Methos answered. “To apply it to reality the way it actually is, not the way you believe it should be. And I would very much appreciate it if you would amend the damn thing to put your own life first, be a little less cavalier about risking your head when it comes to enforcing it. But I’ve never wanted you to abandon it altogether.” Very slowly, very deliberately, Methos stepped closer and laid his hand on the Highlander’s arm. Duncan sucked in his breath, and Methos too felt a frisson of the old excitement, but he ignored it. This was not about seduction. This was about making a point. “Don’t let the likes of Ingrid Henning make you take that step,” he said softly. “It won’t be worth it. Trust me.”

MacLeod swallowed hard, but he didn’t move away. “You’re a strange man to be taking the role of my conscience, Methos.”

Methos smiled an unhappy smile. *Stranger than you know, MacLeod. Stranger than you know.* “Yes, well, these are strange times,” he said aloud. “We never know what bizarre roles the fates have in mind for us to play.” MacLeod nodded heavily and looked down. Methos removed his hand and pointed at the car parked just a few feet away. “Cab’s waiting.”

“Yes,” MacLeod said distantly. He started to open the car door; Methos started to walk around to the opposite side. MacLeod hesitated, hand on the handle. “Methos?”

“Yes, Duncan?”

“Look, tell Joe I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to go to the symphony with you two tomorrow night.” MacLeod gave a sad little shrug. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Methos froze in mid-step. “Excuse me?” he said. “The symphony? *Joe* asked you to go to the symphony with us?”

“Yeah,” Duncan said. “I still don’t know where he got the tickets--the winter concert usually sells out in September. I really do appreciate him asking, but I just can’t go, not until this thing with Ingrid is…well, you understand. You’ll explain it to Joe? I hate to disappoint him, he’s been such a good friend lately…”

“Yes,” Methos repeated dully. “A good friend.” He swallowed. “MacLeod, you can see yourself back to the dojo, can’t you? I just remembered something I have to do.”

“I don’t require a chaperone to make it to my own home just yet, Methos,” Duncan said archly, then got a good look at Methos’s face. “Are you all right? You look…”

“I’m fine, MacLeod. Goodbye.”

Methos spun on his heel and left, striding across the parking lot to the street, where he hailed another cab and took it to Joe’s bar. Once there, Methos didn’t stop to say hello to Joe, who was sitting at a table re-reading Ingrid’s files. He just kept going until he reached Joe’s office, where he yanked open the top drawer of Joe’s desk. There, right on top, were the two symphony tickets Methos had purchased and given to Joe for safe keeping. But with them was a third ticket Methos knew he hadn’t bought, for the same event on the very same night. He drew the tickets out of the drawer, trying to get a handle on his breathing. 

Joe arrived in the office doorway, clearly alarmed. “Methos? What’s happened? What’s wrong?” he exclaimed. Methos turned around, the tickets fanned in his hand. Joe looked at them, and paled. “Oh,” he said. 

“Yes, ‘oh’,” Methos hissed. “I think ‘oh’ sums up this situation very well.” He held out the tickets. “What’s going on, Joe? Are concert tickets suddenly like tribbles now, breeding whenever your back is turned? Because I distinctly remember only buying two of these.”

Joe shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, well,” he said. “I was meaning to talk to you about that. One of my musician friends had an extra ticket…wanted to know if I could find a use for it…”

“I see.” Methos nodded sagely. “And just who were you planning to give this third ticket to, Joe?”

Joe looked more uncomfortable still. “Well, I thought Mike might…”

“Oh, really,” Methos snapped, too angry now to even let Joe finish out the lie. “Bartender Mike? Mike who would rather listen to the sound of his garbage being collected then go to a classical concert, as he told us both right here in this bar the night I asked you to the symphony in front of him? Try again, Joe,” Methos said coldly. “But before you do, I should mention that a funny thing happened on the way to the jailhouse. MacLeod asked me to tell you how very sorry he was that he didn’t feel like dusting off his tux in time for the show tomorrow night. So maybe you should put some more effort into whatever story you’re planning to tell me next.” Joe said nothing, but he wouldn’t meet Methos’s eyes. “Or better yet,” Methos continued, “you could try telling me the truth. You invited him, didn’t you? Not as an afterthought, not because a friend happened to give you an extra ticket. You purposefully bought a ticket just for him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Just like you bought him a ticket for the baseball game and the Fellini retrospective, and otherwise arranged for him to be around every other time I thought I might actually get to see you alone,” Methos said. “I must have been an idiot. I thought MacLeod was following us around on purpose, and I couldn’t quite figure out how or why…but now I realize it had to be you all along.” Methos shook the tickets in the air. “Why, Joe? Is this some kind of twisted test of my fidelity? You think that if you keep throwing me and Mac together often enough I’ll break down and throw myself at him? Or—” A ghastly thought suddenly occurred. “Or is that what you *want* to happen?”

Joe remained silent. But he looked up, squarely meeting Methos’s eyes…and what Methos saw looking back at him was more shocking than anything he could imagine. “Oh my god,” Methos breathed. “That’s it, isn’t it. You want me and MacLeod to get back together.” *Because you don’t want me, the not-Adam-Pierson-me,* his heart sang in terrible chorus. *Because you want to get rid of me, and this was the easiest way you could think of to do it…*

There was a long pause. Then, so quiet it was almost inaudible: “Maybe I do.”

Methos stood still for a long moment. Then he reached behind him and carefully, precisely, laid each ticket out on the surface of Joe’s desk, making sure each paper rectangle was perfectly in line. “Fuck you, Joe Dawson,” he said quietly. “Fuck, fuck you.” And he pulled his coat tight around his body and walked out.

Joe did not try to stop him.

***

Beer doesn’t cure pain. Neither does scotch, nor bourbon, nor the rather cheap whiskey Methos found himself purchasing at the seedy liquor store a few blocks from his latest lonely hotel. But it does numb it, at least for a while…and at that moment, numbness was all Methos wanted. He took the bottle to his room and drank it all, falling into a long, dreamless sleep. And woke up the following afternoon to the sound of the phone ringing, without so much as hangover to show for it. “Pierson.”

“Methos? Is that you?”

MacLeod. Methos smiled sourly at the inevitability of it all. “Yes, Highlander. It’s me. What’s going on?”

“Inspector Breslaw shot Ingrid last night. The police think she’s dead. They think they’ve stopped her.”

“But we know differently,” Methos said. MacLeod made an unhappy noise of confirmation. “You think she’s going to make another try for Wilkinson?”

“I know she is. Methos, I need your help.”

“Ask Joe.”

“Joe’s mortal. He won’t be able to sense Ingrid in the crowd. Besides, you’re…well, I’d like you to be there, that’s all.” Brief pause. “There are some things only another Immortal can understand.”

Methos bowed his head. It was true, very true, and the fact that it had become almost a cliché between them didn’t make it any less so. “I’ll meet you at the community center.”

“Thank you, Methos.”

Ingrid Henning passed from the world at 9:42 on the evening of December 2nd, 1996, beheaded by her former comrade Duncan MacLeod. She carried in her hand a detonation device for a bomb that would have blown up Wilkinson, several hundred speech attendees, and quite possibly Methos as well, if Duncan hadn’t stopped her in time. Duncan had asked her not to use it—Ingrid had moved to press the button. And then Duncan had beheaded her before she could.

In the chaos that followed the sparking power lines and exploding windows caused by Ingrid’s Quickening, nobody noticed Methos slipping away to make a quiet phone call. Fortunately, the Watcher Disposal Squad had a lot of practice in moving efficiently. They had gently taken Ingrid’s body from MacLeod’s arms and scrubbed her blood off the street long before the first Seacouver police car arrived to investigate the “freak power surge” at the Center. When it did, Methos made a second phone call, this time an anonymous tip to 911 that caused a young sergeant within the building to look inside a certain briefcase and turn a very interesting shade of green. The Community Center was promptly evacuated. And the bomb squad was called. 

Methos hung around the cop cars outside for the next hour, blatantly eavesdropping until he was sure that the bomb had been defused and no one even suspected that a murder had been committed nearby. Then he gave into the subliminal pull that had been tugging at him all along and went to find the Highlander, easily following the disturbed feel of Duncan’s Quickening. Duncan was sitting on a park bench less than a block away, posture hunched and desolate. He barely even looked up when he felt Methos approached. “She asked me something before she died,” he said.

“They usually do.”

“She asked what was the difference between her killing them and me killing her.”

“Good question,” Methos said. He sat down on the bench at Duncan’s side. “Right up there with the chicken and the egg.”

“Are you saying that there is no answer?”

“No, there is an answer. The real question is whether you're ready for it." Duncan nodded slowly, and Methos sighed, looking up at the moon. "Stefanovich killed, and Ingrid judged him. Wilkinson killed, and Ingrid judged him. Ingrid killed…and you judged her."

“So who judges me?”

Methos heard the despair in Duncan’s voice, the desperate longing for there to *be* a judge, for there to be a fixed set of moral rules governing the universe and someone who punished those who didn’t obey them. Perhaps there even was one, somewhere. All Methos knew for certain was that it wasn’t him. “You hungry?” he said, stuffing his hands into his pocket as he got to his feet. “I’ll take you somewhere, if you are.”

Duncan looked at him, hurt, shaken, and Methos was sure that he was going to call Methos on his blatant non-answer. Then the Scot smiled a crooked little smile, although his eyes remained haunted. “Yes, Methos. Do that. Take me somewhere.”

They walked to Duncan’s T-Bird, Duncan silently handing Methos the keys as they did. Methos gravely accepted both the keys and the trust they symbolized, then tried to think of an appropriate place to go. He rejected a full half dozen restaurants for being too noisy and crowded at this time on a weeknight, and half a dozen more for holding unfortunate memories of Joe. In the end he simply drove to the dojo. MacLeod looked surprised, but he let Methos help his shaky post-Quickening body from the car to the elevator and then from the elevator to his living room couch, where he sat while Methos searched his kitchen. Methos found an onion in the cupboard and a couple of chicken breasts in the fridge and proceeded to make his Infamous Three Step Grad Student’s Chicken Soup—brown the chicken, sauté the onions, then cover the whole mess with water and simmer until the chicken was cooked through. He could feel Duncan’s eyes on him, following his every move as he worked; Methos closed his own eyes briefly as the familiar tingle overwhelmed him, acknowledging the power of the attraction between them. *Inevitable.* He switched on MacLeod’s kitchen radio and adjusted it to a comfortable volume, letting the loft fill with the soothing sounds of jazz. For the next twenty minutes, the pot simmered, Methos stirred it, and MacLeod watched him while the music played, neither saying a word. Then, abruptly, the soup was ready to eat. Methos ladled out a bowl and carried it to the couch. “Here, Highlander. Eat up. You’ve had a hard day.”

MacLeod took the bowl and tasted. He looked startled. “It’s good.”

“I learned the recipe from a female PhD candidate during the nineteen sixties,” Methos said. “Back then twenty minutes of cooking time qualified as fast food for a busy TA, and if you needed to feed your starving grad student friends, you just added more water to stretch out the broth. I still make it whenever I need some fast comfort food.”

“Yes,” Duncan said distantly. “Comfort—” and his eyes locked on Methos. Instantly both of them were remembering the last time that word had been spoken between them: the night after Alexa’s death, when the air had been filled with similar loss and pain. The radio switched from jazz to a love song, lilting, romantic. Methos bit down on his lip for a moment, then relaxed, surrendering. Yes, some things really were inevitable, after all. He waited for Duncan to finish the soup, then set the bowl aside and took both of the Highlander’s hands, urging him to his feet. “Come, Highlander. Dance with me.”

Duncan did not resist.

They swayed together for a while, Methos’s hands on Duncan’s waist and Duncan’s hands on Methos’s shoulders, where they tightened and loosened in periodic spasms. Neither man was so much dancing as they were standing and letting the music flow over them, defiantly pushing the world aside. Duncan closed his eyes, and Methos chose not to look at his face—instead he looked at the moon hanging just outside the windows, round and ripe and full. He let her cold serenity dazzle his eyes, almost managing to forget where he was and in whose arms he swayed. Then the song changed again, and Duncan spoke. “Methos?”

“Yes, Duncan?”

“Why are you doing all this?”

“Why am I doing what?”

“This.” MacLeod nodded at the soup bowl on the end table, the radio on the kitchen counter. “Why the food, the music? Why the…” Methos brushed his lips over the Highlander’s neck, and a deep shudder ran through the man, shaking every inch of the powerful frame. “Why the comfort?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“With you there usually is.”

“I—” Methos paused to consider, fingers surprisingly steady as he began undoing Duncan’s shirt buttons. *Reasons. Yes. I have half a dozen reasons, Highlander. Because Joe doesn’t want me, and I’m so lost and lonely and scared right now any distraction would do. Because my body and my Quickening both want you, and my heart’s too shattered to continue the fight against them. And most of all, because the fates have conspired to give you one hell of a lesson in how the world really works today, and your loneliness and pain mirror my own so strongly that I can’t resist. Maybe together, we really can make some comfort…* “Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that we both could use it tonight,” he said aloud, and heard the Highlander’s sudden gasp for breath as Methos worked the top button free and let his fingers brush over Duncan’s collarbone. “If you have to have more of a reason than that, I supposed you could think of it as repaying a debt to a friend.”

Duncan chuckled a humorless chuckle. “Methos, we aren’t friends.”

“Then I’m repaying a debt to whatever it is we are. You pick the word, if you can. I’m not sure an appropriate one exists. In any language.” He shrugged softly. “You did the same thing for me, once upon a time. After Alexa’s death.”

“You’ve finally forgiven me for that?”

“Forgiven you for what?” Methos crooked an incredulous eyebrow. “The sex? Highlander, you do have a low opinion of your skills. On that score, believe me, there was never anything to forgive.”

“Not for the sex. For not telling you we’d been together before when you couldn’t remember it, and all the whys and how.” Duncan swallowed, and just as Methos undid his last shirt button and started to slide his fingers along the soft tan skin, Duncan caught his hands. “For being the one you surrendered to.”

The Highlander’s grip was strong and sure, forcing Methos’s hands to be still. Methos shivered as the dominance of that sent quite a thrill to his poor Quickening, making his skin tingle. Comfort. What a liar he was. Joe had been so right to doubt him. “No. I don’t think I can ever forgive you for that.”

“Methos…”

“Shhh. I *can’t*, Highlander. It’s cost me too much. You have no idea.” He swiveled his hands around, ended up reversing their positions so that he held Duncan’s wrists in his fingers. It was a move he never would have been able to pull off if Duncan hadn’t let him, and he knew it. He brought one Highland hand to his lips, kissing the fist gently in an unconscious mirror of what Duncan had once done for him. “But I do know that it wasn’t intentional. Neither of us could have predicted what would happen. What my surrendering to you would mean.”

“So is that where we are, then?” Duncan let out a bitter laugh, even as he closed his eyes to better concentrate on the sensation of Methos brushing his lips over his wrist. “You know it wasn’t intentional, that neither of us would have chosen this if we’d had the option, but you still can’t forgive me?”

“Pretty much.” Despite the fact that he still had his eyes closed tight, Duncan managed to communicate his extreme frustration and disgust with that response. Methos sighed. “Duncan, all I ever claimed to be was old. I never said I was logical.”

“No. You never did, did you.” Duncan opened his eyes and looked down at his hand, the fingers that were so tantalizingly close to Methos’s mouth. “Does that mean I don’t have to be logical either? Because tonight I’m feeling anything but.”

“And just what are you feeling particularly illogical about, Highlander?”

“This.” Duncan nodded at their joined hands. “Us. I know…I know this is wrong. We don’t belong together, not really. But maybe, just for tonight…”

“We can offer each other some comfort.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Duncan squeezed Methos’s fingers, a gesture that held much more resignation than genuine tenderness, but Methos was willing to take whatever he could get. Even willing to make believe that the sadness he saw in the Highlander’s eyes when he pulled away was for Ingrid, not for him. “Come on then,” Duncan said. “Take me to bed.”

So Methos did what Duncan asked, leading the Highlander by the hand to the foot of his own bed, removing his clothing piece by piece as they went. There was a certain hopeless quality to their kisses, a stiffness in the way Duncan responded to his touch, that probably would have put Methos off under other circumstances. But he was already suppressing so many emotions—trying not to think of Joe, or the hollow pain of losing him for good—that adding one more thing to the list was no problem at all. And while Duncan may not have been exactly enthusiastic, he was hardly unwilling. By the time Methos had slowly stripped Duncan down to his boxers and had seated him on the bed, the muscular chest was swelling and contracting quickly with the barely suppressed need to breath, and the heartbeat Methos felt when he took the bronzed wrists into his hands was quick and steady. For his own part, Methos subdued the franticly painful cry of his heart--*Not Joe, not Joe, not Joe not Joe* by concentrating hard on the body sitting nine-tenths revealed before him. He knew full well that it was beautiful, so beautiful that once upon a time it would have boggled his mind that he actually had the privilege of touching it this way. So he did his best to give Duncan’s beauty the attention it deserved, kneeling behind him on the bed so he could kiss and bite his way down the sculpted lines of Duncan’s back. And if neither of their hearts was entirely into it, you never would have guessed it from the bulge in Duncan’s boxers or the equally prominent swelling in Methos’s jeans. *Well. At least one part of me has no problem moving on,* Methos thought, sarcastic inner voice not covering his own self-loathing in the slightest. He stripped his own shirt off over his head and sank to his knees between Duncan’s feet, fingers tugging at the elastic of Duncan’s boxers. After a moment’s hesitation, Duncan lifted himself enough for Methos to yank them down. Methos slipped them off the strong legs and set them aside.

Strange. How many times had he had sex with Duncan MacLeod now? Three? And in all that time, he’d never before made eye-level acquaintance with the Highlander’s cock. Methos supposed it was Duncan’s misplaced sexual chivalry that was the reason why. After all, with skill and care you could easily have a man’s ass and insure a good time for you both, but asking that same man to suck you off could be crassly one-sided. Well, never mind. Duncan clearly was fine with letting Methos take the lead tonight, and Methos was looking for oblivion, not pleasure. Punishment too, if he was honest with himself, which he really didn’t want to be. He took the large, remarkably pretty cock--*Not Joe’s not Joe’s not Joe’s*-- in his hand and licked his way up the underside, prompting a strangled, unwilling moan from the Highlander before Methos popped the beautifully flaring head into his mouth and started sucking. He was just starting to get into it, enjoying the sounds Duncan made whenever he brushed his slit with his tongue, when Duncan suddenly pushed him away. “Enough, Methos. Stop.”

Methos’s mouth felt stiff and strangely empty, it had been so abruptly vacated of its former tenant. It took him a couple swallows and experimental twitches of his jaw to get his mouth working well enough to speak. “Problem, Highlander?” he said coolly.

“No.”

“Good. Because I’d hate to think you were sneering at my technique.” *“My god. Is that what 5,000 years of practice can do for a man?” “Joe, that wasn’t even worth five months. Give me a chance to rest and I’ll show you a little trick it took me four centuries to mumble mumble…”* Methos shook his head hard to clear it of the unwanted memory, and forced himself to look Duncan in the eye. “Better let me finish or I’ll be insulted.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that,” Duncan said wryly. Methos gave a curt nod and bent to resume his work. Once again, Duncan stopped him. “I’m not complaining about your technique, Methos. Believe me. I just wanted more, that’s all.”

“I see.” Methos considered this. After a moment he gave another nod; well, he had offered comfort, hadn’t he. He just hoped Duncan would be content to have him from behind, as they’d always done before. He really didn’t want to have to face the man while he was in his ass. Didn’t want to look up and be forced to realize what he was doing or who he was doing it with. “Got anything to ease the way?”

“Lube in the chest at the foot of the bed. Or there’s some massage oil in the bathroom. Sandalwood, I think.”

Sandalwood. Methos shuddered. *”For the rest of your life the scent should remind you of this moment…in case you’re ever tempted to go wandering away from your feet again…”* Well, he was about to go wandering as far from his foundation as it was possible to get. Or maybe that was wrong. Maybe this *was* his foundation, reality as it was supposed to be, the thing he had to face about himself that he would rather have died than acknowledged. Either way, he didn’t want the oil. The last thing Methos wanted in the midst of this darkness was to be reminded of that day in Nepal when everything had seemed so bright. “I think we’ll stick with the benefits of modern chemistry,” he said smoothly. “Hang on, I’ll get it.”

“The key to the chest is on the bookcase right behind Treasure Island. Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.”

Once upon a time, when he’d been staying in the loft after he’d lost his memory, Methos had amused himself by wondering about the contents of Duncan’s locked blanket chest. What would it contain? Whips and chains, a stash of gay porn, naked pictures of Amanda? Methos had never quite brought himself to picking the lock to find out, although if he’d known Duncan was so stodgily unimaginative as to have hidden the key behind Stevenson he would have peeked long before this. Much to Methos’s disappointment…or possibly not, he was way past the point where he could analyze his own motivations clearly…the antique blanket chest just held spare blankets, along with a half-used bottle of lube and a handful of condoms in the top sliding tray. “Treasure Island indeed,” Methos muttered. “Highlander, we have got to talk about your tastes in literature. Couldn’t you have come up with somewhere more creative to stash the key to your…and I use the term loosely…naughty supplies?”

“What’s the matter, Methos?” Duncan’s voice floated from behind the cover of the chest’s big lid, sounding amused. “Never had the been-taken-hostage-by-pirates fantasy?”

“Not for several thousand years, no. As I think I’ve mentioned before, I hate the water.” Methos picked up the bottle, lowered the chest’s lid. And was promptly confronted with a sight he had never expected to see. 

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was lying sprawled on his stomach on the bed, completely and gloriously naked, long hair spread in a fountain over his shoulders and the pillows. One knee was bent and raised to waist level, the exquisite warrior’s ass bared and spread to Methos’s disbelieving eyes. “Duncan,” Methos said slowly, the lube dangling forgotten from his hand. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Five thousand years of experience and you still can’t tell?” Duncan stretched languidly against the sheets, a marvelous display of finely honed muscles shifting sensually beneath flawless skin. “I was just making myself comfortable. While I waited for you.” Duncan craned his neck, saw Methos’s frozen face. A hint of confusion entered the soft chocolate eyes. “Methos, is something wrong? This is what you were expecting, wasn’t it?”

“I---er, no,” Methos admitted, feeling slightly dizzy. “It wasn’t what I was expecting at all.” Duncan’s look of confusion deepened. Methos waved an airy hand at the sight presented to him. “We’ve never…um, that is, you’ve never offered…”

“To let you top?” Duncan asked. Methos nodded emphatically. Something dark crossed the Highlander’s face. “Well,” he said a little stiffly, tossing his hair as he turned back to the pillows. “It’s not like we’ve really done this enough to have a pattern. Maybe I just felt like doing something different.”

*Uh-oh.* Duncan’s sudden testiness was like a clear warning bell. “I see,” Methos said patiently. “And this change of attitude would be because…?”

“Who says it’s a change?” Methos raised his eyebrows. The Highlander looked frustrated. “Methos, I hate to shatter any fantasies you may have developed, but you are not the first man I’ve ever done this with.”

“And when was the last time?”

“Uh—” Duncan’s face fell. “The 1920’s?” Methos said nothing, but he said it with great expressiveness. “All right, all right,” Duncan said, finally dropping his seductive pose. He sat up and curled his knees protectively into his chest. “I just thought that it might help make this thing between us better if you had me. Make you feel…I don’t know. More in control.” Duncan’s voice dipped low. “Maybe make you hate me less.”

“Oh, Highlander.” Methos sat down on the edge of the bed with a defeated bump. “Where have you been all evening? I don’t hate *you*.”

“You don’t like me much, either.”

“I don’t *dislike* you.” Duncan made a frustrated sound. Methos lifted his hands helplessly. “What do you want me to say, Duncan? That I’m happy about all this? That I’m passionately in love with the man who brought five thousand years of rabid independence to a close? I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet, at least.” Duncan looked away, unhappiness showing in every line of his body. Methos shook his head sadly. “The best I can do is to tell you that I don’t hate you for it. For god’s sake, I was the one who first drew a sword on you, that day I surrendered to you in the dojo. If there’s anyone I should hate, it should be me.”

“That day in the dojo…” Duncan looked shocked. “Oh, Methos. You can’t—you don’t still think you surrendered to me that day we fought over Kristin, do you?”

Methos frowned. “Didn’t I?”

“No! I mean, I know that was the day when we both finally realized, but…oh, Methos.” The soft brown eyes filled with compassion. “Didn’t you ever wonder why you could never get a cell phone to work around me? You couldn’t. There’s always been too much interference whenever we’ve been together. Your Quickening has been disturbed around me from the start. You actually surrendered the first day we met.”

Methos stared at him, too surprised to speak. Duncan leaned toward him, speaking earnestly. “Don’t you remember?” he asked. “It was the day I first came to your house, to warn Adam Pierson about Kalas. I sensed your presence, let myself in…you looked up at me from the floor…and I felt it. All your age, all your power, suddenly joining mine. I didn’t know that’s what had happened, of course. How could I? I’d never felt anything like it before. But that was the moment you surrendered.” Duncan’s voice softened. “How else could I have known your real name?”

Methos moaned softly, closing his eyes. In his mind, he replayed that first meeting: he heard himself saying “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Have a beer. Mi casa es su casa” and Duncan’s incredulous “Methos???” in response. Mi casa es su casa. Even at the time, Methos could remember wondering over the words; they seemed like such a strange thing to say to any stranger, let alone to a sword-bearing Immortal he’d just met. But now the memory contained a realization so profound he was shocked that he hadn’t understood the phrase’s true meaning before. *My house is your house, Highlander,* Methos thought now. *And not just my house—my soul, my body, my everything is yours. Yours for the taking, from that very first moment on. I knew. Oh, god. I knew…* 

He swayed softly. Duncan lunged across the bed and closed his hands over Methos’s forearms, steadying him. “Oh, Methos,” Duncan said sadly. “I’m so sorry. I honestly thought you’d figured it out long ago.”

“I *knew*,” Methos said dazedly. “I just didn’t let myself *know* that I knew.”

“Yeah.” Duncan gave him a weak little smile. “That makes sense. I was in denial about it for a long time, too. Then this summer I went to visit to Connor…”

Oh. This just kept getting better and better. Methos twisted around to look the Highlander in the eye, feeling as if he’d just been slugged hard in the solar plexus. “You told *Connor MacLeod*?”

“I had to, Methos!” Duncan said wretchedly. “Connor’s my Teacher. He knew there was something different about my Quickening the moment he saw me. And…he knew what it was. Because when he was younger the same thing happened to him. With Ramirez.”

“*Ramirez?*”

“Yes. Ramirez,” Duncan nodded. “The first time Connor ever saw Ramirez, the earth shook and the skies spun, just like they did for me the first time I saw you. Ramirez tried to make Connor think it was just the normal reaction every Immortal feels in another Immortal’s presence, but it wasn’t. Ramirez didn’t admit the truth for years, but in that first moment he surrendered all that he was. He told Connor later that it happens that way sometimes, when a really old Immortal finally meets the warrior who was born to take his head. Something in the Quickening recognizes its final home…” Methos let out another low moan. Duncan looked stricken. “Connor always felt guilty about it. You see, when Ramirez finally told him the truth, he begged Connor to take his head and finish it. Connor wouldn’t. Then the Kurgan came along, and…well. You know what happened next.”

Methos shook his head. Just then he wasn’t sure he knew anything, up to and including his own name. “Do I?”

“Yes, Methos. Yes, you do,” Duncan said sadly. “Ramirez didn’t lose that day in the tower because the Kurgan was truly stronger. Ramirez lost because he’d already surrendered to Connor, and he no longer had the will left to keep himself from kneeling. Connor felt it when it happened. He said that he and Ramirez had been…entangled, ever since the first day they met. But the moment the Kurgan’s sword fell, he was suddenly all alone…”

“Oh.” Methos said the syllable softly, more groan than word. “Oh.” *Ramirez, you old Egyptian goat,* he mourned silently. *I always did think it was strange that it was an ape like the Kurgan who finally managed to take you down. Now I know why. You’d already surrendered your soul to a green boy by the name of MacLeod…we are more alike than even I ever guessed. Were you as shocked as I was when you realized, old man? Did it cost you anywhere near as much?* 

Duncan pulled Methos closer into his body, his hands moving over Methos’s shoulders in a comforting rub. Methos allowed him, too shaken to object to either the closeness or support. “I’ve been going crazy, ever since you got back from Nepal,” Duncan said softly. “It wasn’t so bad, when you were halfway around the planet. I could fool myself then, make myself believe that Connor had been wrong. But now that you’re here…I *feel* you, Methos. I can feel your Quickening trying to blend with mine even when you’re halfway across the city, and I know that it’s leaving you weak. If you accept a Challenge now, the chances are very good that you’ll lose. And even if you win, you won’t be able to absorb the Challenger completely. Your Quickening thinks it should be leaving your body to come to me, not taking on new energy. That’s why you had such a hard time after you killed Kristin. That’s why I’ve been following you around everywhere, these last few weeks. I couldn’t leave you alone. Not when I knew what could happen...”

Alarmed, Methos glanced over his shoulder into the Highlander’s face. “*You’ve* been following me everywhere?” he asked sharply. “I thought Joe had been inviting you along.”

MacLeod blinked. “Well, yes, he was,” he answered. “He seemed to want the two of us to spend time together, I’m not sure why. He probably still feels bad about the falling out we had over Jacob. You know Joe…his heart’s too big for his own good. He always wants everyone he cares about to be happy…” Methos made a gulping, despairing sound, and Duncan’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “But even if he hadn’t, I would have found some way to keep an eye on you,” Duncan said. “I know you never go looking for fights, but this is Seacouver, after all. What if someone Challenged you? What if you accepted?” Duncan shook his head in pained wonder. “God, you have no idea what it’s been like, these last few weeks. I kept wanting to warn you, but I felt too guilty to even bring the matter up. You have a right to hate me for *that*, at least, if nothing else. I was being so stupid. I should have told you right away. When I think about what I could have lost…”

Methos gave a bitter little laugh. “What *you* could have lost?” he said wonderingly. “For god’s sake, Highlander. If you were so worried about losing my Quickening to someone else, all you had to do was take my head. Saved us both a lot of trouble.”

The hands on his shoulder tightened further, causing actual pain. “You really can be such an asshole sometimes,” Duncan breathed. But a second later he had twisted Methos around on the bed, and Methos found himself being pulled into a passionate kiss. It was as wild and frantic as if Duncan was trying to crawl into his skin via his mouth, and Methos finally understood. It wasn’t his Quickening Duncan had worried about losing, the undeniable advantage Methos’s strength would give him in the Game. It was Methos himself. The knowledge shocked the old Immortal, even as his heart argued against it. Duncan was, after all, still very young, young enough to mistake the feeling of possession for genuine affection. He didn’t know anywhere near enough about the real Methos to understand what he was professing to love. Sooner or later the truth would come out, and the child would be shocked and disgusted by what he was doing now. But for now…just for now…Methos was too heart sore to care. He kissed back just as passionately, losing himself in the heady if completely false feeling of being wanted for himself--*Oh, Joe. If only it could have been you…*--and when Duncan rolled off him and panted, “Now. Want you. Don’t say no,” Methos did not say no. He just planted a hopeless kiss on Duncan’s forehead and went for the lube. 

Once he had the bottle in his hand, he set it aside. After seventy years of abstinence the Highlander deserved better than sterile chemical slickness, at least to begin. He deserved quite a lot, actually. Pity he only had Methos to give it him. Duncan rolled onto his stomach and spread his legs. Methos carefully tucked the bottle into a fold of blanket for future use and then parted the beautiful buttocks with his own warm fingertips instead. He bent his head, inhaling the Highlander’s musk *not Joe’s not Joe’s not Joe’s* and began to tease the tight pucker with his tongue. Duncan let out a sound that was half profane oath and half sob, and as Methos began to make serious love to the tender opening with his mouth, he felt the old thrill ripple though his body, the familiar need to give this man everything. He almost laughed aloud at the irony. Did Duncan really think that letting him top would give him his power back? Foolish child. Methos was now more of a slave then ever. Especially since he found his own arousal growing the more devoted he became, the more he gave without wanting anything in return. He memorized every sound of startled pleasure Duncan made as he worshiped the near-virginal tightness away, finally reaching for the lube to coat his fingers before he slid them deep inside; this was, after all, to be his lot from now on, this the body he would need to know how to pleasure. When Duncan was ready, Methos turned him on his side and spooned up behind him, chest rubbing against the sweaty back as he noted that the Highlander’s cock was so hard and wet with pre-come it glistened in the dim light. He wrapped his hand around it, sadly noting the near-perfect way it fit into his palm. Not Joe’s. Not what Methos wanted. But better than he deserved, nonetheless. Methos moved his pelvis forward, lightly rubbing his own cock over Duncan’s stretchy slick opening—fuck, so hot now, so ready. “I won’t hurt you, now,” Methos murmured throatily into Duncan’s ear. “Still want me, Highlander?”

His answer was a wordless cry of passionate assent and an insistent backward thrust of the Highlander’s hips. Methos grabbed them before Duncan could hurt himself and entered with infinite care, sliding in slowly, feeling the tight passage yield as Duncan surrendered each new inch. He felt himself surrender too, as first his cock was absorbed by hot flesh and then his entire body was absorbed by the inferno of Duncan’s Quickening. Energy poured through Methos’s frame, flaying every nerve. Their previous encounters were as a candle to a supernova compared to this; Methos had honestly never felt anything like it before. Did he move? Did Duncan? If either of them did, it wasn’t really necessary. Methos was throbbing into Duncan and Duncan was throbbing around him, movement completely irrelevant in the face of the incredible pleasure that burned through them both. Methos found his mouth clenched over one muscular shoulder, and as he bit down even that small violence felt like an act of reverence, his teeth sliding into the beautiful flesh the same way his cock slid into the beautiful body. Giving. Surrendering. Yielding all he was.

When he came, he was unsure if the salty taste in his mouth came from Duncan’s blood or his own tears.

***

Several hours later, Methos stirred. He sat on the edge of Duncan’s mattress, staring down at the polished floorboards beneath his feet, keenly aware of every little warp and ridge in the polished wood beneath his toes. From behind him, shrouded in shadows and rumpled blankets, Duncan spoke. “You feel it, don’t you.”

“Yes, Highlander. I do.”

“Our Quickenings are more balanced now. The pull I always feel when you’re around, the need to force you down and possess you…it’s not completely gone. But it’s better. Less intense.” Duncan sounded wondering. “Is it because you had me this time, instead of the other way around? When you were in me, I felt…”

“No, Highlander.”

“No? But I…I mean, it was more equal this time. Surely that…”

“We are never going to be equals, Highlander. It doesn’t matter who does what to whom. The difference in the pull you’re feeling…it’s not because I’m stronger. It’s because I finally decided to stop resisting.” A sigh. “I belong to you. I always have, it seems. There’s no point in fighting it any longer.” *Cassie said there would be things about myself I’d have to face, things I never wanted to look at it. Was this what she meant? Is this her idea of a happy ending? Never trust a seer…they have the strangest senses of humor.* Methos buried his face in his hands.

“Methos, I never meant…”

“I know that.”

“I don’t want you to…”

“I know that, too.”

“For fuck’s sake, let me finish a sentence.” Duncan’s hand clenched in the bedclothes. “Is it really that bad? Belonging to me?”

Methos breathed in harshly. It was the same question Duncan had asked him in Paris, what felt like a century ago. He remembered what his answer had been then: a decided “I don’t know.” And he’d be lying now if he didn’t admit that he still felt some of that uncertainty. But Duncan was holding his breath, every muscle tensed as he waited for Methos’s answer…and Methos had lost his taste for pointless cruelty a very long time ago. He turned, giving Duncan a very small smile. “No. It’s not so bad at all.”

Duncan’s breath of relief was audible. Methos leaned over, brushed a kiss across the damp forehead, and got to his feet. “Get some more sleep, Highlander. The moon’s still up. I’m just going to go look at it for a while.”

“Take my robe. It can get chilly by the windows this time of night.”

“I will.”

The moon had moved from the eastern to the western sky during the night; she now looked even more distant than she had before. Older. More tired, somehow. Methos gathered up the offered robe and slipped it on, tying the belt loosely around his waist as he walked to the windows to look out. He looked from the lonely, remote moon to the closer but just as lonely circles of light cast by the streetlights below, feeling, for a moment, like the only human being left in a dark and broken world. But he wasn’t alone. Under one of those lampposts, collar turned against the cold, stood a man. A short, stocky, familiar man, leaning heavily on a cane. As Methos moved closer to the window, the man too moved out of the shadows, the lamplight catching on his hair and beard. Joe…

Their eyes met, and for a moment it was as if all the distance between them vanished. They could have been standing within arm’s length of each other, instead of one on the street, one a full story above. Methos saw the tired bags under Joe’s eyes, the stiffness in his limp, the slight shakiness of the hand that gripped the cane. In turn, he knew that Joe was seeing him just as clearly—getting a good look at his swollen lips, his rumpled hair, and MacLeod’s too-large robe so inadequately shrouding his sticky, naked body. For a moment Methos saw a pain deeper than any he’d ever witnessed in Joe before flash in the musician’s eyes. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was replaced by something else. Peace. Acceptance. And a deep, uncompromising understanding. Joe slowly lifted his arm, letting his hand rise until he was holding it high and straight in the night air. Methos raised his hand as well, pressing it flat against the cold glass of the window pane. They stood for a moment, locked in wordless communion, each saying a silent goodbye. Then Joe lowered his hand. He nodded once—Methos swore he could see wetness glistening in the mortal eyes. Then Joe turned and limped away.

Methos stood at the window for a long time after Joe disappeared from sight, lost in a maelstrom of emotions…pain and sadness and guilt and a strange sort of gratitude. It was over now. Finally over. And that was…probably for the best. Methos looked out for a few moments longer, than spoke…trying not to notice how small his voice was, how lonely it sounded in the dark. “Highlander?”

“Yes, Methos?”

He might as well ask. Cassie had said it was important, after all. And it was extremely unlikely that he’d ever have a chance to ask Joe himself, now. “Did Joe ever say anything to you about my hiking boots?”

“Your hiking boots?” Duncan sounded sleepy, and understandably puzzled. “No, not that I…oh, wait.” He shifted in the bed, pulling a pillow behind his back as he sat up against the headboard. “There was something, once. It was right after Kristin’s death, while you were still unconscious. I went to get you at Joe’s place, and I tripped over a pair of your hiking boots in the hall. Joe said he’d had to cut them off you because the laces had melted during the Quickening. I said something about Immortals always needing to replace synthetic laces with leather or cotton, and Joe said that you couldn’t be blamed for not thinking of that ahead of time, since nylon hadn’t been invented the last time you took a head.” Duncan yawned, and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. “Is it important?”

“No, Highlander.” Methos took one last look down at the now-abandoned street, then pulled his hand away from the window. His fingers felt very cold. “It’s not important at all.”

**~End Methos and Methos~**


	8. Joe and Methos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this is the chapter that non-con warning finally applies to. Just didn't want anyone to be taken by surprise.

**Joe and Methos**

“I wish that I could show you  
When you are lonely or in darkness  
The incredible brilliance of your own being…”  
~Hafiz

**_~City of Seacouver, Late January, 1997~_ **

**_~Six weeks after Ingrid’s death~_**

“Adam!” Mrs. McGillicudy was all warm smiles and welcoming hugs. “I saw the show! You were wonderful!” 

“Thanks, Mrs. M.” Methos gave his bustling landlady a tired smile as her arms went around him. “It was quite an experience, I can tell you.”

Mrs. Marcia McGillicudy—septuagenarian, proprietor of The Second Chance Tastefully Furnished Apartment House (Short-Term Leases Our Specialty), and Adam Pierson’s most recent self-appointed mother figure—nodded emphatically. “Of course, Adam! Being on television always is.” She lowered her voice. “Shame about the Tom Jones question. Still, what can you expect? You’re much too young to remember the twist.” 

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Of course it’s true. You have to be part of my generation to remember Chubby Checker.” Mrs. McGillicudy gave an exuberant swivel of her matronly hips, then smiled and patted Methos comfortingly on the arm. “Never mind. It was just one question, and you made quite a hit with the audience. I’m sure Roger will find a way to have you back.” She looked around expectantly. “Now where’s that charming young man of yours?”

“Out being manly and heroic as usual.”

Methos had meant to say the words under his breath, but Mrs. McGillicudy had the ears of a bat. “Oh, dear,” she said sympathetically. “Another sweet young thing with a flat tire, was it?”

“Something like that,” Methos answered. The Second Chance didn’t have many female residents, but Duncan always went out of his way to be charming to the few there were, perpetually carrying groceries and opening doors. Mrs. McGillicudy had been knitting in the lobby the day Duncan had made them miss their dinner reservation in order to help an attractive young divorcee change her tire in the lot, and Methos knew that the landlady privately commiserated with Methos’s constant frustration over Duncan’s Boy Scout tendencies. Unfortunately, there was no way Methos could tell her that Duncan’s current absence wasn’t due to yet another damsel in distress. No, *this* time the Highlander was out confronting an Immortal. The one whose Presence they’d sensed as they left the TV station. The one whose aura had made Methos’s every nerve twang like a badly strung guitar. Methos detangled himself from his landlady’s encircling arms with a gentle little pat. “Mrs. M, would you mind if we continued this later?” he said. “I have a bit of headache.”

“Oh, poor boy! Must be those bright lights they have at the studio,” Mrs. McGillicudy replied. “I know how bad they can be if you aren’t used to them. You go lie down, get some rest. I’m sure—” she smiled slyly—“that Mr. MacLeod will be by later to congratulate his television star in person, won’t he? You’ll want to be feeling your best for that.”

“Yes, Mrs. M. I certainly will.” Methos made his escape. 

He quickly took the lift upstairs and let himself into his ‘tastefully’ furnished flat, all beige carpet and beige furniture and beige painted walls. The only touches of color in the apartment at all came from Mrs. McGillicudy’s much-loved amateur water colors on the wall. Methos privately thought that the paintings made the place look like a bad American motor inn, but he would never have hurt Mrs. M’s feelings by saying so. It had taken her much too long to warm up to him as it was. 

Being one of the only landlords in Seacouver to offer both furnished apartments and week-to-week leases did not tend to make a person optimistic about human nature. When Methos had first arrived, Mrs. M had assumed he was either a drug dealer or one of the many wife-beaters and adulterers who rented space at the Second Chance while their divorces were being finalized. But then Duncan had started coming to visit, and her attitude had changed. “Ah,” she’d said companionably one evening, when Methos had returned to the lobby after walking Mac to his car. “So *he’s* the reason, dear. I had wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

“What you were doing living here with us,” Mrs. McGillicudy had answered bluntly. “You’re a nice boy, Adam, and I’ve been wondering what you were doing here for quite a while now. Most of the men who come through this place…well, it’s easy to see why their wives kicked them out. But you?” She’d given Methos a knowing look. “It all makes sense now. Got married before you really had a chance to find yourself, didn’t you, dear? Had to try to have the wife and the kids and the white picket fence before you could admit you were gay?”

Methos’s first instinct had been to snap out a rude denial. Then his sense of humor had caught up with him, and he’d flung himself down on the lobby’s cheap floral couch at Mrs. McGillicudy’s side. “No kids, thank god,” he’d said. “But something like that. How could you tell?”

“Dearie, nothing gets past theses eyes,” Mrs. McGillicudy had answered comfortably, causing Methos to hide an amused smile—it was all so ludicrous. “Besides. The way your ‘friend’ looks at you—well. It’s pretty easy to see that he’s the reason why you no longer have a happy home.” Abruptly, Methos’s good humor had faded. It was too damn close to the truth. Mrs. M had patted his hand. “I’m glad you didn’t have any kids of your own involved, Mr. Pierson,” she’d said. “But between you and me and the gatepost? You might want to pay a bit more attention to your boyfriend’s son. He sat glowering in the car the whole time you two were in your apartment last week. I don’t think he’s too happy about your place in his Dad’s life.”

Methos had been confused. Then he’d realized that Mrs. M was undoubtedly thinking of Richie, who was the entire reason Methos had taken an apartment at The Second Chance at all. MacLeod would have been happy to have Methos move into the loft, and Methos had lived there for several weeks after Ingrid’s death. But Richie’s snide comments and resentful looks had eventually proven to be too much. *Yes, Mrs. M, I have a very difficult stepson,* Methos had thought derisively. *The fact that I beheaded his girlfriend last year might have something to do with it. Ah, Immortal family relations. We put the fun in dysfunctional…* “Richie’s always had problems with me,” he’d said mournfully, feeling Mrs. M’s understanding gaze. “He once wrote my telephone number up on a bathroom wall. Complete with ‘for a good time call’.”

“Teenagers,” Mrs. M had said soothingly, and once again Methos had been forced to restrain a snort. “Don’t worry about it, dearie. He’ll grow out of it in time.” Her eyes had brightened. “I know! I’ll have to introduce you to my son, Roger. His partner has a 15-year-old daughter. You two could compare step-fathering notes…”

And she’d launched into a lengthy monolog about Roger, his schooling and childhood illnesses, his current work as a producer at one of the local television stations downtown, and just how large a family scandal his coming out had caused. (“My cousin Matilda still refuses to invite any of us to the Elk’s for spaghetti night, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, do you?”) Methos had calmly agreed that he saw nothing wrong with either being gay or eating spaghetti, and from that moment on, Adam Pierson had been a firm part of Mrs. McGillicudy’s extended family. It was Mrs. M who had gotten Methos his assistant curator’s job at, of all places, the Seacouver Historical Society, and Mrs. M who’d talked Methos into appearing on Roger’s Saturday morning quiz show, Wheel of History. Filmed on a shoestring budget and extremely low rated even by local television standards, the show was in danger of being cancelled if Roger couldn’t come up with some smart, photogenic contestants ASAP. Mrs. M had just known Adam would be perfect for the job.

Truthfully, it hadn’t taken much arm twisting for Methos to agree. He’d become very fond of Mrs. M during his time at The Second Chance. The landlady had a refreshing straight forwardness coupled with an affectionate nature that made her a delight to be around. He’d been glad to do her a favor. And he’d thought attending the filming would be harmless, entertaining way to keep Duncan out of trouble for a day. Unfortunately, it had taken Methos exactly five minutes into the filming to realize that Duncan wasn’t being entertained at all. The Highlander had sat in the studio audience with a very sour face, positively glowering whenever Methos made a successful answer. And his comments when they’d walked away from the studio after the show had been insulting in the extreme. “I can’t believe you did that.” “They’d love a hammerhead shark if it had a nice smile.” “Here’s a question for you. Animal, four legs, carries heavy weights…” “Donkey?” “Try three letters.”

The sarcasm had hurt, and at first Methos had been baffled as to its cause. Then he’d come to the rather startling conclusion that Duncan was jealous. Not of Methos’s success, but of Roger…who *was* a bit on the obvious side when it came to his sexuality, and who had given Methos a very friendly hug before he left. Not that Duncan had anything to worry about. According to Mrs. M, Roger had been with his lover Jacob for more than ten years, and the happy couple was trying to adopt a second child. But Duncan didn’t know that, and given the number of arguments he and Methos had been having lately, Methos supposed some discomfort was natural. He’d been about to pull the Highlander behind a handy news van to reassure him with a passionate kiss, but then…

But then the powerful Immortal buzz had broken over them, and Duncan had insisted on discovering who it belonged to. Which left Methos with nothing to do but slink home the back way, vehemently cursing the invention of the television, Seacouver’s abnormally high Immortal population, and Duncan’s blasted Warrior Code with every step. Damn the man, anyway. Would it have killed him to duck into an alleyway just once? In the three weeks since New Year’s alone, Duncan had already taken 2 heads. Both times Methos had counseled caution. Both times Methos had pointed out that the Challengers would probably just go away if Duncan dropped out of sight, since neither had a history with Duncan that meant they were gunning for him in particular. But no. Duncan reacted to even the smallest hint of a Buzz the same way a guard dog would react to another canine in his territory, determined to protect his turf…leaving Methos to pace worriedly and wonder just how long Duncan’s lucky streak could last. Being confident in one’s abilities was one thing. Being stupid and reckless was another. But would Duncan shelve his damn warrior’s pride long enough to listen? No. Of course not. And so all Methos could do was bite his lip, stand back, and wait.

There *were* compensations. Duncan MacLeod, strong and sweaty and bristling with the energy of a barely settled Quickening, could make Methos whimper with just one smoldering look. The sex they’d had on such occasions had been memorable, to say the least. And there were times, when they were walking down the street side by side or sharing a late meal at one of Duncan’s favorite gourmet restaurants, that Duncan’s alpha-male tendencies would make Methos feel…content. Protected. Surrounded by that unique feeling of being cherished that had so haunted Methos in Paris, before his visit to the Holy Spring. 

There was just one problem. That feeling never extended to those times when they were actually speaking aloud. Methos and Duncan were just too different, saw the world in such opposite ways. A chance comment of Methos’s would invariably lead to an argument. And if MacLeod had lacked Methos’s skill at verbal laceration in the beginning, he was rapidly learning to hold his own. The Highlander was now capable of saying in just a few words something that would leave Methos’s heart bleeding for days. Not that Methos ever showed it, of course. The child already owned enough of his soul without learning that he had that power, too. But it was still…unsettling. 

Alone in his apartment, Methos helped himself to a beer with an unhappy grimace. No, the last six weeks hadn’t exactly been peaceful. When you counted in all the arguments, the Challenges, and Richie’s continual resentment of Methos’s existence, Methos supposed it was amazing that he had any nerves left at all. Which was probably why he was now staring at the clock, worrying more about Duncan with every passing minute. Methos knew it was stupid, being this concerned. Duncan hadn’t actually said he was going to Challenge the Mysterious Unknown, after all. He’d only said that he’d wanted to find out who was around. And only a complete idiot would fight a battle to the death downtown at this time on a busy Saturday. But…now that Methos let himself think about it, he realized that there had been something very worrying about that other Immortal’s buzz. It had felt old, almost as old as Methos himself. And there had been a familiarity about it that…

Stop it. He was old, he was crazy, he had been worn down by circumstances until he’d started imagining things that weren’t really there. MacLeod was fine. He had to be.

Methos would even give him another whole hour to check in before he called the dojo and made him prove it.

***

The first hour passed. So did a second, and a third, and a forth, during which Methos repeatedly called the dojo only to discover that Mac had left his phone off the hook. For a moment the thought of calling Joe whispered tantalizingly in Methos’s mind…but he couldn’t. He’d long since forfeited the right to go to Joe for help about anything. Nervously, Methos tuned into the local news instead. He watched the weather, making sure no freak lightning storms had been reported…and then as the twilight fell he made up his mind. He tossed one of his looser pairs of jeans and a sweater he’d originally borrowed from Duncan into his backpack. If the Highlander had fought a battle and was hiding in a warehouse somewhere covered in blood, he might appreciate a change of clothes. And even if Duncan couldn’t use them tonight, Methos was certainly going to need them in the morning, as he didn’t intend to leave the loft until well after dawn. Quickening or no Quickening, Duncan was going to have to offer him some truly spectacular make-up sex to atone for all this worry. Methos took the elevator down into the lobby, waved goodbye to a knowingly smiling Mrs. M, and walked out into the dark parking lot.

He felt the Buzz first. “Mac?” Methos said curiously. It didn’t *feel* like Mac…but then it wouldn’t, not necessarily, not if the Highlander had taken a formidable challenger within the last few hours. Then, quicker than thought, the knife appeared, sunken hilt deep into Methos’s chest. It happened so suddenly that, for several long moments, Methos didn’t even feel the wound. He just stared down at it, surprised. Then the pain came, and Methos sank to his knees, gasping.

Out of the darkness strode a man, the source of the Buzz. Old. Powerful. And part and parcel of Methos’s worst nightmares. “K—Kronos?” Methos gasped.

“Welcome back, brother,” Kronos answered, grinning as Methos slid down the car to the concrete. The scarred Immortal almost looked affectionate. “I missed you, too.”

And the world started to grow dim, darkness crawling from the edges of Methos’s vision to the center as his life force began to fail. It was very strange, though. Just before everything went black, Methos could have sworn he was no longer looking at Kronos’s laughing face. 

It felt like he was looking at his own.

 

***

 

**_~From the private journal of Joe Dawson, early January, 1997~_ **

 

Sometimes I wish I’d never become a Watcher.

It’s bad enough, just *knowing* that the love of your life is shacking up with somebody else. It’s worse being required by your job to spy on them. As Area Supervisor, I have a lot of flexibility when it comes to Watching MacLeod, but the bare minimums are pretty clear. Now that Mac’s again such an active player in the Game, I have to make visual contact at least three times a week… more, if a Challenge seems to be in the offing. And unfortunately for me, Watching Mac these days means Watching Methos, too. The two of them are damn near inseparable. Every time I break out my binoculars to look at Mac, there’s Methos, standing at Mac’s side like particularly lanky shadow. They go everywhere together, movies, concerts, restaurants. And thanks to my Watcher duties, I’m the one who gets to record it when Mac doesn’t go home afterward, but spends the night at Methos’s new apartment instead. 

Lucky me.

I don’t *have* to do it. HQ’s been trying to get me to give up doing field work for months. I could say yes, take the promotion, become North American Coordinator and hand Mac off to another agent. God knows there’d be no lack of willing applicants. But I just can’t do that to Methos. There’s too good a chance that another Watcher might recognize the new man in Mac’s life as being Adam Pierson, and what would happen then? Questions would be asked…and what if the Tribunal found more answers than they were looking for? What if they found out that Adam Pierson had been an Immortal all along? What if they found out he was *Methos*? We’ve made a lot of progress since Jacob Galati’s death, and I don’t *think* HQ’s first instinct would be to fix the security breach with an ax…but I’m not willing to bet Methos’s life on that. So, the job is mine. And once again, I’m falsifying Mac’s Chronicle. Methos isn’t Methos; he’s just an “unidentified Caucasian male” that Mac’s been spending a lot of time with, quite possibly the same one who made so many mysterious visits to the barge last spring. I’ve even speculated that Mac may be reprising his role as a government spy, and that this strange man is his contact. 

I think that would make Methos laugh, if he knew.

Not that he ever will. Methos seems to have a positive genius for avoiding the places I’m likely to be. And apart from Watching him through binoculars with Mac, I haven’t seen him since…well, since the night that Ingrid died. I don’t blame him. It must have hurt like hell, discovering that I’d purposefully been throwing him and Mac together. Sometimes I wake up in the night hearing his last “Fuck you, Joe Dawson” echoing in my ears, and I want so bad to try to explain…but what would be the point? It’s over, it’s done. Methos and Mac are together. Trying to explain why I did what I did now would just be pouring salt into wounds that have already begun to heal. It’s for the best that Methos continues to avoid me like the plague. Best that I don’t see him, so I’m not even tempted to open my mouth and make everything worse.

But Mac has been a different matter. The first few times he stopped by for a drink after Ingrid died, I managed to avoid him. It’s amazing how much space rustling papers and muttering dark comments about the IRS can buy you. Mac would come in, sip his drink, and leave, all without me having to do more than nod in his direction. The fourth time this happened, though, he sat down at a table near the back of the bar, and after a couple of hours I knew I wasn’t going to get out of talking to him. So I took a deep breath, got myself a drink, and went to his table. “Mac,” I said.

“Joe,” he said back. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you.”

“Yeah?

“Yeah. Take a seat.” He nodded soberly at the table’s empty chair. I took it, but Mac didn’t seem to be in any hurry to say anything; he just fiddled with his drink for the longest time. Just as I had started wondering if it was time to manufacture some kind of Watcher crisis in order to get away, Mac finally put down his glass. “Oh god, this is *awful*,” he said, and leaned toward me. “Joe, you’re my Watcher. I can’t keep anything from you. You have to know exactly what I’ve been doing lately, and who I’ve been doing it with. I need to know that the two of us are still okay.”

Red alert. For a moment I just stared at him, all kinds of alarm bells going off in my head. Then I controlled myself and spoke very carefully. “Why wouldn’t we be all right?” 

“Because of Methos, Joe. And because of me,” he said, looking about as uncomfortable as I’d ever seen him. “Look. I know you were surprised when I first told you about us, that day Methos got so sick absorbing Kristin’s Quickening. I don’t blame you, either. I know you were raised in a pretty religious house. And even in this day and age it’s not exactly common for most men to…to take other men as companions.” He looked down at the table. “It can’t be exactly what you expected of me, Watching me all those years. I just wanted to make sure that you were…I mean that you weren’t…”

Yeah, I know. * I* couldn’t believe it, either. The man actually thought I’d be upset, not because he’d somehow found out that Methos and I’d had a past, but because his perfect heterosexual image had been tarnished. “Weren’t what?” I said, and I admit that I might have been a bit on the testy side. “Shocked? Disappointed? Terrified? In other words, acting like a typical heterosexual bigot? For god’s sake, Mac. Open your damn eyes,” I said, and when Mac just looked startled, I shoved back my chair and got to my feet. “Who you fall in love with is who you fall in love with. You don’t have any control over it. Believe me. I know.”

Okay. Not exactly subtle, I grant you. But I was just so god damned frustrated by the whole thing—of always being in the background, of never being seen by any of the Immortals in my life for what I really was—that for a moment I let my anger get the better of me. I might have stormed off into the backroom then, and who knows what would have happened next? But Mac called me back. “Joe. Don’t go!” he shouted, and when I turned around he looked very apologetic. Damn those big brown eyes of his, anyway. They could melt a heart of stone…or even one that was partially frozen, like mine. I sat back down. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said quietly when I had. “I just wanted…”

“To make sure we were okay. Yeah, so you said,” I answered tartly. “And I repeat: why wouldn’t we be? This is Methos we’re talking about, after all. He’s…” I hesitated, but there didn’t seem to be any harm in saying it, even if my voice did quake a bit. “He’s special. Nobody who knew him could blame you for…for wanting to hold onto him.”

“Yeah. He is special, isn’t he.” 

Mac said the words so fondly that I felt ashamed for snapping at him earlier. After all, none of this mess was Mac’s fault. He couldn’t help it that he’d turned out to be the better man. Hell, he still didn’t know there had ever been a competition in the first place! All he was doing was what I’d worked damn hard to make him do—taking care of Methos, loving him, keeping him from harm. Was I going to hate him for doing what I wanted? I cleared my throat. “Mac...”

“Yes, Joe?”

“About Methos. I need you to do a big favor for me. I need you to watch over him for me, keep him safe. Because if you don’t…or if you hurt him in any way, any way at all…I will take your head. I won’t stop to worry about Watcher regulations, or what your loss could do to the Game. I’ll just kill you. Are we understood?”

And you know? I’d expected him to be surprised. Maybe even a part of me hoped that he would be. Hoped that he’d ask questions, hoped that he’d want to know just why Methos was so damn important to me. But Mac wasn’t surprised at all. He just looked sad. “I’ll take care of him exactly as much as he lets me,” he said, and got to his own feet. “Look Joe, I’d better run. You’re playing tomorrow, aren’t you? I’ll bring Methos by. I’m sure he’ll want to come listen.”

“Yeah. You do that,” I said. It was perfectly safe—I knew Methos would rather lose his head than come to hear me play, and I was right. He didn’t show, not that night nor any other. I sometimes wonder what excuse he’s giving Mac to avoid it—the Highlander’s bound to be suspicious, after all the time Methos used to spend here. But it’s really not my problem, is it? Nothing concerning Methos will ever be my problem again. Except for continuing to keep his secret from the Watchers. 

And for keeping him in my prayers.

 

***

**_~City of Seacouver, Late January, 1997~_ **

 

It was a little after ten in the morning when Joe’s phone rang. Joe groped sleepily for the phone beside his bed. “Dawson.”

“Joe. It’s me, Duncan. Something’s happened. We need to meet you at the bar.”

Half asleep, Joe’s first reaction was *Great, here we go again. Time for the latest Immortal crisis. I knew things had been too quiet to last.* Then he woke up a little, remembering all that had happened in the last six weeks, and his second reaction was abject terror. “We?” he said into the phone. Rather squeakily.

“Yeah, we,” Duncan said, sounding harried. “There’s a new Immortal in town, a dangerous one, and we need your help finding him in the Chronicles. Look, we’ll be at the bar in twenty minutes. Can you be there to let us in?”

Feeling somewhat like he’d been hit over the head with a two-by-four, Joe gave his assent. This new Immortal must be very dangerous indeed, if Methos was breaking his self-imposed exile from the bar to get information. What would Methos look like? What would he say? Joe dressed quickly and walked to the bar, moving just as quickly as his legs would allow…and arrived, rather breathless, to find two Immortals awaiting him on the stoop. They just weren’t the two Immortals he’d been expecting. “Cassandra?” Joe said in surprise.

The tall brunette gave Joe a look that clearly put him on the same level as your average amoeba, if not even lower. “You know my name?” she inquired archly.

“I told you,” Duncan said impatiently, before Joe could figure out how to cover his blunder. “Joe’s a Watcher. He knows about Immortals. Which is why we’re here.” Duncan turned to Joe. “Joe, we really do need your help. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Right,” Joe said, so shocked by this turn of events that he didn’t even think to protest the revelation of the Watcher secret to yet another Immortal. Cassandra? Tall, mysterious, stunningly beautiful Cassandra, the Immortal seer who had originally seduced MacLeod at the tender age of eleven and who’d returned for a short but passionate fling that very fall? What on earth was *she* doing here? Joe unlocked the door and let the two Immortals into the bar, feeling very dazed…a condition that only worsened when MacLeod told him just who he wanted the information on. “You’re kidding me, right?” Joe said, hardly able to believe he’d heard correctly. “The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse? Like in the Bible?”

“No, like in the Kentucky Derby.” Duncan answered, with just a hint of the bratty sarcasm Joe so clearly remembered from Methos. No question about it. Hanging around with the old Immortal full-time was definitely starting to have an effect on the Scot.

“Well, great! I’ll call my bookie.” Joe answered in kind. “Who are we betting on, Mac? War, famine, pestilence?”

“Death,” Cassandra said. 

She said it with all the terrible finality of an undertaker nailing a coffin shut. Joe snuck a look at her face. “You’re serious,” he said slowly.

“Dead serious,” Mac agreed. “I know how it sounds, Joe, but it’s true. The Four Horsemen existed. Cassandra…she knew them well.” 

He proceeded to give Joe the details, while Cassandra glared angrily in the background, clearly unhappy to be sharing this much of her history with a mortal. Joe didn’t blame her much. Four thousand years ago, a band of masked horsemen had ridden into her tribe’s nomadic camp and slaughtered everyone in sight…including Cassandra herself, who had died her first death that day. It was a terrible story, the telling of which obviously caused Cassandra quite a bit of pain. Joe tried to make his voice as sympathetic as he could. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. But the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? They aren’t real.” He looked appealingly at MacLeod. “You know how it is, Mac. From the dawn of history, there have been mounted raiders. The stories about them become legends, and the legends become myths. The Four Horsemen…they’re symbols of doom. Nothing more.”

“A symbol didn’t put my tribe to the sword,” Cassandra snapped.

“The Four Horsemen were Immortals,” Duncan said levelly, shooting a “calm down” glance in Cassandra’s direction. “And one of them was called Kronos.”

“Kronos? Sounds like something out of the dark ages.”

“Bronze, actually,” Cassandra hissed the words, eye flashing perilously. “I know. I was there.” 

Joe took a step back. Jesus Christ. Just what had Mac dumped on his doorstep now? The barely restrained look of feral anger on Cassandra’s face was reminding Joe that no female Immortal survived for as long as Cassandra had without there being a damn good reason for that survival. He was glad Duncan was there. Otherwise, Joe would have been trying to find a graceful way to get his handgun out of the safe. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked helplessly. 

“Find Kronos!” Cassandra shouted.

“But how?” Joe countered. “I mean, even if this is for real…” he shot Mac an apologetic look… “I’ve never heard of this guy. How am I supposed to track him down?”

“You’ve never heard of Kronos,” Mac answered. “But you have heard of Melvin Koren.”

“Well, yeah,” Joe said, not seeing the connection. Of course he’d heard of Melvin Koren. “El Gato” was another one of those great Immortal mysteries Watchers everywhere loved to discuss over pizza, since he’d come out of nowhere, cut an extremely bloody swathe across the Old West for several years, and then disappeared just as suddenly as he’d arrived. Mac raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and suddenly the penny dropped. “I’ll see what I can find out,” Joe said. “But I warn you, it may take a while. Koren’s Chronicle has been closed for quite some time. I’m not even sure all his records are online yet. I may have to have some things faxed from the archive.”

“We’ll wait,” Cassandra said. 

“No, we won’t,” Duncan said pointedly. “We still need to go back to the television station, ask if anyone there saw where Kronos went. And Joe will work better if we’re not breathing down his neck.” Cassandra made a displeased “Tuh!” sound and flounced off across the floor, surveying some of Joe’s band posters with a decidedly unhappy air. Duncan lowered his voice. “Call me the second you know anything,” he said.

Joe nodded. Crazy as it was, this wild goose chase of Cassandra’s was obviously important to the Highlander, and Joe wasn’t going to argue. He did wonder what Methos thought of this latest ex of Macleod’s to show up and demand his help, but that really wasn’t any of Joe’s business, now was it? “Yeah. You know I will,” he said. Duncan gave him a heartfelt nod of gratitude, then collected Cassandra and ushered her out, shushing her “Your taste in mortal company has seriously suffered during the last few centuries, Duncan,” as they left the bar. Joe sighed, shaking his head. Then he went into his office and sat down at his computer.

He’d been right. Melvin Koren’s file had been closed for more than a century. The few records that were available online were sketchy, to say the least. Joe couldn’t turn up so much as a photo… but there was an archivist’s note that said more material was available in storage at the Seacouver facility. Joe would have to submit a request and wait for the librarian in charge to have time to fax what he needed. Briefly he considered invoking his emergency privileges to have the files delivered directly to the bar as he’d done with Ingrid, but he reluctantly quashed the idea. MacLeod’s ex-girlfriend throwing a tizzy fit was unlikely to qualify as a true emergency by HQ’s standards. At least not one that Joe wanted to explain. 

The front door opened, and a friendly hello was called from the bar--Mike the Bartender had arrived. Joe called a greeting back and went back to filling in the request form, feeding it into the fax machine as he listened to Mike mop the floor and straighten the chairs and do all the other tasks necessary to get the bar ready to open for the day. The big screen TV they kept to show football games and pay-per-view boxing matches hummed softly to life as Mike tuned into a local news show for company; Joe heard a muffled oath, and then suddenly the volume was turned up loud. Very, very loud. A second later Joe’s office door banged open, shoved by a very wild-eyed looking Mike. He held a dripping bar towel in his hands. “Joe,” he said, voice cracking horribly. “You’d better get out here. It’s Adam.”

Joe hurried into the bar. Up on the television screen, a grey-haired woman Joe just barely recognized from his Watching as Methos’s new landlady was staring into the camera. “It was horrible,” she said, in response to the reporter’s question. “It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

“You didn’t see where the assailant came from?”

“No!” Mrs. McGillicudy twisted a handkerchief agitatedly in her hands. “I don’t know where he came from. He was just *there*, standing in my parking lot, and Adam was sliding to the ground, gasping like he was really hurt. I put down the phone—I was talking to my son Roger—and I ran to the door. And that’s when I saw the…” Mrs. McGillicudy swallowed. “That’s when I saw the knife. It was sticking right out of the middle of Adam’s chest.”

“Did the assailant threaten you in any way, Mrs. McGillicudy?”

“No! That was the strangest part,” Mrs. McGillicudy answered. “I must have made some kind of sound, because he saw me and walked toward me. He opened the door and *smiled* at me, like nothing unusual was happening at all. Then he said, ‘Do you know my brother there, Grandmother?’ I was so scared I couldn’t talk, but I must have nodded, because his smile got even wider. He said ‘Good. You can be our witness. I want you to call the police, Grandmother. Tell them you saw my brother killed, saw me shove a knife into his heart. This life is over for him, now.’ Then he walked back over to where…to where Adam was lying on the pavement, and he dragged him away.” Mrs. McGillicudy’s voice broke. “He didn’t even pull out the knife...”

The newscast went on. Joe watched, hypnotized, as the newscaster started droning out Adam’s basic biographical details: Mr. Pierson was 37 years old and a relative newcomer to these shores, a recent employee of the Seacouver Historical Society and a contestant on this station’s very own Saturday morning quiz show, “Wheel of History”. Despite the words of his assailant, there was still a small chance that Mr. Pierson was merely badly wounded instead of dead, so viewers who had seen anything suspicious were strongly encouraged to contact the police. The broadcast then switched to a graphic picture of the parking lot outside of the apartment house, camera lingering on the bloody pavement. “It doesn’t seem possible,” Mike said, sounding near tears. “Who could have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know.” 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Mike said. “This ‘brother’ thing…that old lady must have heard wrong, right? Adam didn’t have any family left. I know, Alexa told me.” No question about it; the big bartender was definitely crying now. “She thought it was part of what made them so perfect for each other. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Joe said leadenly. “Yeah, I remember.” He stared at the television as the newscast cut back to Mrs. McGillicudy, shakily stating that she hadn’t been able to get in touch with ‘Adam’s special friend Duncan’ all morning and asking that he check in with her soon. *No,* Joe thought, fury mixing with his shock. *Of course Mrs. McGillicudy hasn’t been able to reach you, Highlander. You’ve been too busy playing Lancelot to Cassandra’s Lady Guinevere. If you hadn’t, you would have been with Methos, and this never would have happened. For fuck’s sake, you were supposed to be protecting him! I never would have let him be with you otherwise. Oh god. What have I done???* 

The newscast was interrupted then, a surprisingly harried anchor coming onto the screen to say that the police had tentatively identified Adam’s assailant as one Mr. Edwin Klone. Mr. Klone was currently on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for charges that had not been disclosed, but which seemed to involve terrorism and the theft of military secrets. “Mr. Klone is known to be armed and extremely dangerous,” the anchor said, sweating lightly. “The authorities urge anyone with information about his whereabouts to call 911 immediately. Do not, repeat, do not, approach him or try to apprehend him yourself. Stay tuned, we’ll have his picture for you on-screen in just a moment…” 

“Terrorism?” Mike said, astonished. “Adam would never have gotten involved with anything like that, would he?” 

“Of course not.” 

Joe sank down heavily into a chair. Once again, the picture on the TV screen switched to the parking lot, this time zooming in on the blood streaking Methos’s new SUV. The one he’d bought on purpose so he’d be able to transport Joe’s sound equipment when asked. The one Joe had only let himself ride in once, because the temptation to tell the Immortal to pull over and kiss him senseless had been too great. Mike’s hand closed over his shoulder, gently but firmly forcing Joe to look away. “Don’t look at that,” Mike said insistently. “Instead, think hard and tell me who I need to call. I know Adam doesn’t have any family, but what about his Watcher friends in Paris? I’ve got to call Lindsey at the Library for sure…who else, Joe? Kevin? The Lundts? And what about this ‘Duncan’ guy that lady keeps talking about? I don’t have any idea who that is, do you?”

“No,” Joe said distantly. “No. I don’t have any idea.” Despite Mike’s restraining hand on his shoulder, Joe couldn’t help but look at the screen. At least the station had finally switched away from the macabre scene in the parking lot. The first publicly released image of Edwin Klone was now being displayed, a black-and-white photo that appeared to have been taken from an airport security camera. The picture was a bit on the grainy side, but surprisingly clear. The long vertical scar that marred one eye was very plain, as was the taunting smile. “Look at that,” Mike said with a low whistle. “Smiling right at the security camera. Like the bastard knew it was there all along and didn’t care that he was going to be identified. Oh god, Joe.” The big barman looked very lost. “What are we going to do?” 

“I don’t know.” Joe shook his head helplessly, staring at the grainy black and white image. For a moment, the sight of that smile caused an eerie feeling of familiarity—then Joe shook it away. No, his mind was playing tricks on him. He’d never seen Edwin Klone in his life. “I don’t know,” he said again.

Mike said nothing, but his face filled with pity. He settled in at his boss’s side to watch and wait.

***

There was pain. 

There was cold.

There was a *lot* of pain. And a lot of cold.

In the first confusion that always accompanied a resurrection, both sensations made perfect sense. Methos thought the pain was simply the usual sting of once-dead nerves coming back to life, the cold the normal chill of a body whose blood hasn’t quite returned to circulating. But the moment he opened his eyes, Methos knew he’d been much too optimistic. He was in some kind of dark, long abandoned building, the air so cold that his breath was turning into fog. His body was stretched out on a metallic platform that made his backbone feel as if it was pressed into a block of ice. And most chilling of all, standing over him was Kronos, looking as cheerful as a kid in a candy shop. “Welcome back, brother!” he greeted heartily. “How are you feeling?”

Such a question. The only part of Methos that wasn’t cold was his chest; the place where Kronos had stabbed him burned with a fiery pain, evidence that even Immortal healing needed time to erase such a deadly wound. Instinctively, Methos tried to touch the injury, needing to discover if the hole had finished closing over. But the movement just set off a series of wracking coughs, bringing the unmistakable tang of old blood into his mouth. Kronos must have a punctured a lung, then, in addition to piercing his heart, the arrogant bastard. Anybody else would have gone for a belly wound, since the chances of getting a throwing knife precisely between the ribs at that distance were small, to say the least. But then, Kronos had a right to be confident. Over the millennia, he had gotten to know human anatomy in general very well. And he knew Methos’s particular anatomy even better. “How do I feel? Like I left my heart in San Francisco,” Methos gasped through the terrible coughs. 

Kronos chuckled. “I didn’t know you had a heart!” he said gleefully. “Does it hurt?”

“What do you think?” Methos tried to push himself up. 

It was a mistake. Kronos dropped down into a crouch at his side, smiling wickedly. “Since you ask?” he said, and shoved Methos back down on the platform, sending a searing bolt of agony through Methos’s entire frame. “I think you’re not used to pain, brother! What’s happened? You got soft?”

He watched Methos gleefully as he struggled through another coughing fit, eyes gleaming speculatively. Methos knew that look. It was the speculation with which Kronos always eyed his victims, the look he always wore as he tried to decide if his prey was strong enough to provide an entertaining fight. Showing weakness at such moments was always instantly fatal. Unfortunately, until his chest healed, Methos was going to show weakness in spades. But he still had one weapon left—his words. “I just passed through my angry adolescent a little quicker than you, Kronos,” he panted.

It worked. Kronos smirked. “Now that’s more like the brother I remember. Always a quip on hand. Always a witty remark.” He removed his hands, and Methos finally succeeded in struggling upright. Kronos sat down next to him on the dais. “You know, for the longest time I thought you were dead,” he said. “I didn’t even bother looking for you.”

“What changed?”

“I started hearing rumors. Methos. The World’s Oldest Man.” Kronos slapped Methos companionably on the back—well, companionably if you happened to be a sumo wrestler. If you were a still-healing Immortal, the slap had enough force to cause intense pain. “You slipped up there, old friend! You got sloppy.”

“Well, we’re none of us perfect,” Methos answered, wondering uneasily just what rumors Kronos had heard. Had he been following The Messenger, and ended up finding the real Methos instead? Or had it been one of Methos’s own indiscretions, Duncan or Amanda or Richie, who had said the wrong thing at the wrong time? *Not Joe. It wouldn’t have been Joe. He’s much too careful to let anything slip by accident, and he never would have done it on purpose. Not even now…* Methos pasted on a smile. “You look surprised, Kronos. What’s the matter? Didn’t you think I had it in me to last this long?”

“No,” Kronos answered gravely. “I was sure you’d lost your head centuries ago. But when I think about it, I see I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“No?”

“No.” Kronos shook his head. “You were always the one I counted on. You weren’t the strongest or the toughest, but you were the survivor. It’s what you do best.” He smiled then and leaned in close, breath brushing over Methos’s neck like a lover’s caress. “Or *did*.”

Methos’s whole body froze. So this was it, then. Methos almost wanted to laugh out loud at the irony. After centuries of avoiding death because no one was strong enough to take him, he’d finally found the one Immortal in the world who could…and now the whole thing, the whole bloody, stupid dance with MacLeod, was in vain. Methos’s neck was going to be severed by Kronos’s blade, and what Kronos couldn’t absorb of his Quickening was going to be lost. Just like Darius. Just like Ramirez. Could Kronos feel it? Would he even care if he did? Probably not. Kronos was much too arrogant to think he needed Methos’s power, and much too cruelly pragmatic to worry about what might be lost. If he wanted Methos dead, dead Methos would be. No other consideration mattered. “So you’re here to kill me,” Methos said leadenly.

“It’s what *I* do best!” Kronos said happily, and Methos bent his head. Yes, indeed, killing was what his brother did best. Methos had been a fool to ever think he could escape him. Kronos lowered his voice. “But you do have a choice.”

It was a thin rope, but Methos grabbed for it. “Oh, I’m all for choices.”

“Well, then.” Kronos looked straight into Methos’s eyes. “You can lose your head. Or you can join me.”

And suddenly there was a light at the end of the tunnel. It might have belonged to the proverbial rushing train, but it was a light nonetheless. Methos smiled weakly. “Well, now,” he said. “Since you put it that way…” He tried to get the next words out smoothly, but they caught in his throat, and ended up sounding rather choked. “Welcome back, brother.”

Kronos smiled. He got up, chains jingling in his hands, and left the room. After a long moment, Methos followed.

***

It had been a long time since the simple act of having sex had made Methos feel dirty. Not even seeing Joe through MacLeod’s loft window the night their relationship had ended for good had left Methos with this…this stickiness of body and soul. He felt like he was covered in filth, a gritty grime that clung to him even after he’d practically scrubbed himself skinless in the power station’s men’s room. Now, as Methos drove Kronos’s stolen black sedan back into Seacouver, the grit seemed to grind deeper into his skin with every shift of his body within his clothes. He kept plucking irritably at the top he’d changed into, the soft brown cotton sweater of MacLeod’s he’d placed in his backpack what seemed like centuries ago. The expensive fabric now felt like a bed of nettles, and knowing that the itch was entirely psychological didn’t help at all. It made it worse. So did the faint scent of Duncan’s laundry detergent that lingered in the fibers, constantly reminding Methos of just how clean the Highlander kept his things, and just how badly Methos did not belong amongst them. Unfortunately, the car’s stiff leather seat kept pressing the cloth firmly into Methos’s skin, and the closed space meant that the soapy scent just kept getting more noticeable. Methos wanted to strip the garment off, but he had nothing else. Kronos had been thoughtful enough to pick up Methos’s backpack when he’d killed him at Mrs. M’s, but nothing more…

Every red light was an exercise in torment. 

Methos tried to calm down. Tried to look on the bright side. Sex with Kronos hadn’t been nearly as bad as it could have been. Certainly compared to what he’d once done to others at Kronos’s side, it hadn’t been bad at all. There had been no more knives, no blood, no pain. Kronos hadn’t even made use of the chains he’d carried so menacingly from room to room. All he’d done was cup Methos’s cheek in a mockery of the tender gesture Methos remembered from Joe, whispered “How I’ve missed you, brother,” and leaned in with his mouth—not kissing, but licking, running his tongue over Methos’s jaw in a way that was primitive and animal and branded Methos as thoroughly as a slaver’s iron. Methos had hardened at once, the scent of his fear and desperation filling the air. Kronos had inhaled it with delight before tearing Methos’s sweatshirt in two, drawing the tip of his tongue around Methos’s neck in a blatant imitation of a blade. He’d dipped lower, lapping away the last bloody traces of the dagger wound he’d caused. And then…but Methos really didn’t want to think about the then. Didn’t want to remember the way he’d unbuttoned his jeans and opened them with his own trembling hands, offering himself mutely for the other man’s pleasure. Didn’t want to think about Kronos’s triumphant smile or the way Kronos had…played…with his cock, pinching and scratching and expertly keeping Methos just this side of coming for what felt like an eternity before the familiar sweet pain became too much and he was forced to explode. 

It seemed that Joe was not the only one who had Methos programmed into his skin.

Methos hated that. He hated that, after all this time, his body still reacted to Kronos in the same old way, hated that Kronos could still make him come with a thoroughness that left him screaming and seeing stars. He hated that the ruthless, brutal masturbation could make him react just as strongly as Joe’s knowing gentleness or Duncan’s passionate skill. And he hated especially that, once he’d exploded rather messily over them both, Kronos had merely wiped away the goo with the remains of Methos’s sweatshirt and tossed the dirty cloth in Methos’s face. “Go away, brother. Clean yourself. You smell like a cheap whore,” Kronos had said and sauntered confidently away, taking no satisfaction for himself. Methos knew why, too. It was a game. The kind of game Kronos gloried in playing, because the way Methos reacted would tell him more about who Methos was now than any interrogation ever could. If Methos still saw himself as Kronos’s brother he would have sprung at Kronos, snarling and biting and perhaps holding him against the wall with his sword until they’d both had their satisfaction. If Methos saw himself as Kronos’s prisoner he would have buttoned up his jeans and slunk uneasily away, knowing full well that both freedom and orgasm were debts that would have to be repaid. Either way, Kronos would have been happy. Either way, he’d have gained valuable insight into the way this modern Methos ticked.

Methos had slunk away. Life as he knew it may very well be over, but at least he could still have a few more hours before he once again experienced the sight and taste of Kronos’s come. And at least he could face MacLeod with…not self respect, not exactly. But with a small measure of inner strength that would have disappeared if he’d touched Kronos further, a strength that Methos was going to need. Because, assuming Duncan had survived a whole day of living in the same city as Methos’s savage brother, Methos was going to have to do something he really, really didn’t want to do. He was going to have to look the man who owned his soul in the eye and explain exactly who Kronos was and what they had been together. 

And then Methos was going to have to ask Duncan to risk his life to take Kronos’s head.

The Highlander was in the dojo office when Methos arrived, looking up something in the dictionary he carried in his hands. When he saw Methos he put the book down and hurried to him, a concerned look on his face. Methos almost fell over from relief. Thank god. Kronos either hadn’t met the Highlander face to face at the television station after all, or else he’d decided to overlook the tempting youngster’s Quickening in favor of torturing Methos. Either way, it was nothing short of a miracle that Duncan was still alive. “I was worried about you, MacLeod,” Methos said shakily. “Glad to see you made it.”

“Yeah. You too,” Duncan said warmly. He stopped an arm’s length away, looking Methos over from head to toe with all the tender concern of a mother examining her infant. For the first time, Methos actually welcomed the instinctive pull his Quickening made him feel. He could sense Mac’s energy reaching out to his like a thousand caring hands, surrounding his ragged aura with concern and strength, and Methos gratefully surrendered to the comfort it offered. It was good, knowing that he didn’t have to face this alone. “Look,” Methos said urgently. “Something’s come up…”

“Yes, I know,” Mac said softly. “Have you ever heard of an Immortal named Kronos?”

Methos was as shocked as if the floor had suddenly opened up under his feet. “Kronos?” he repeated hollowly.

“Yes, Kronos,” Duncan answered. “He’s an old Immortal, very powerful. Very dangerous, too. Have you heard of him?”

Methos bit down on his lip. He’d made very careful plans about how this conversation was going to go, exactly how he was going to tell Duncan who and what Kronos was. Discovering that Duncan had already heard the name—a name which Methos had made very sure was not in any Watcher Chronicle, not even the most ancient—was disturbing. “I may have,” he said hesitantly. “How did you hear about him?”

“He was the Immortal that was tracking us after the filming. I—” 

Whatever MacLeod was going to say, it was lost forever. The elevator suddenly started rumbling downward, and a strong Immortal Presence overwhelmed them both. A very old, very strong, very angry Immortal presence. A second later the elevator grate slid up and Methos was presented with a very old, very strong, very angry female Immortal, her dark eyes flashing as she took Methos in. “You?” she said incredulously.

Methos honestly didn’t recognize her, not then, not at first glance. His first thought was that she was just another in the seemingly endless line of MacLeod Immortal Exes. She certainly fit the profile, from her rather astonishing physical assets down to the obviously jealousy nature. But unlike the rest of Duncan’s exes, she seemed to recognize Methos. “You?” she said again, much more angrily this time…and for the second time that day, Methos felt his heart stop. Because he knew. He knew that voice, he knew those eyes, he knew every line of the curvaceous body revealed by the streamlined modern clothes. Except…it couldn’t be. Surely there had to be *some* limit to the amount of cruelty the world could inflict on one man in one day. “Who’s this?” Methos asked tensely. Hoping against hope that he was wrong.

The woman moved toward him, booted feet clicking menacingly over the wooden floor. Suddenly, there was a naked blade in her hand. “Draw your sword,” she commanded.

“MacLeod, who is she?” Methos backed away, still clinging to the hope that he was wrong. The angry woman bearing down on him with the sword couldn’t possible be who he thought she was. “You don’t know me,” he said. And silently prayed that he didn’t lie.

“Did you think I could ever forget?” Cassandra’s voice deepened, roughened, became a passable imitation of Methos’s own. “I am Methos. You live to serve me. You already died once today…did you enjoy that? No? Then learn this lesson well. I will kill you as many times as it takes to tame you.” Cassandra’s voice returned to its normal pitch. “You slaughtered my people, Methos. You killed *me* more times than I can tell. I lost count of the number of times you plunged a knife into my heart or staked me out to die in the sun. But you didn’t do it enough, Methos. As you can see, I remain un-tamed.” Cassandra sneered, and for a very strange moment, Methos thought he saw blue face paint shadowing half her features. “Now. Draw your sword. Or I will be even more ruthless than you.”

Duncan’s mouth was open. Methos looked at him, seeing shock, surprise, doubt…and the tiniest, most insidious hint of understanding. As if what Cassandra was saying actually made a kind of sense to him. As if her words had supplied puzzle pieces he’d long reconciled himself to never finding. Methos saw it all, and in that moment he knew three things. He knew that the whole story was going to come out, as inevitably as water flows from a high spot to a low one. He knew that when it did, MacLeod was going to take Cassandra’s side. And he knew that if he didn’t get far, far away before that happened, his chances of living to see another dawn were even slimmer than he’d thought. “This is crazy! It wasn’t me, MacLeod,” Methos said, lying through his teeth—lying just as he had a thousand other times, over the millennia, to ensure his survival. He injected a note of helpless panic that he knew couldn’t fail to stir Duncan to action. “Do something!”

It worked. Duncan’s protective instincts took over. He grabbed Cassandra around the chest, holding her firmly. “Get out of here,” MacLeod barked. Methos didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted, the sound of Cassandra’s rabid demands to be set free fading into the distance as he ran. 

And he knew that from here on out, he was completely on his own.

***

Joe’s Bar didn’t open at all that day. As the rest of Joe’s employees trickled in one by one, Mike told them the story, and they all ended up sitting in front of the TV while the “Closed” sign stayed turned to the door. It was amazing, how many of Joe’s employees turned out to have fond memories of Adam Pierson, how many were willing to stay in the bar keeping vigil even when Joe said they could take the day off with full pay. Kevin the busboy made coffee, Mary and Sarah the waitresses went out for donuts, and the entire staff of Joe’s Bar settled in to watch the news together. 

Joe knew he should be touched by this, and later on, he would be. For now, though, he was pretty much oblivious to the support his staff was offering. Every time the local station re-ran Mrs. McGillicudy repeating Edwin Klone’s chilling words about Adam’s life being over, an image of Methos’s decapitated corpse would flash before Joe’s eyes. He waited in a daze, expecting to hear any minute that a headless body had been discovered. But the news just went on, endlessly re-hashing what it had already covered without saying anything new. When the station finally returned to its regularly scheduled programming, Joe gathered himself together enough to flick the television off. “Right,” he said to his staff. “That’s it. It’s pretty obvious that they’re not going to know anything else for a while yet. Go home, everyone. I’ll call you the moment I hear anything more.”

It took some convincing. Mike in particular did not want to leave Joe by himself. But after making a firm promise to call if he needed anything, Joe finally managed to push him out…which left Joe alone with one guitar, one stage, and one very disturbed mind. He hobbled to the stage and took his guitar onto his lap, only to discover that his hands were shaking too badly to form even the simplest of chords. He quickly set the guitar aside before he could drop it and damage it permanently. Then he buried his face in his hands. 

A soft noise came from the back of the bar. Joe lifted his head, heart catching in his throat when he saw the tall, black-clad form standing in the shadows…and then plummeting again when Joe realized just whose form it was. Not Methos. MacLeod. “Mac,” Joe said, anxiously rubbing away the traces of tears from the edges of his eyes. “Oh god. Mac. Have you seen the news?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ve seen the news.”

The Highlander’s voice sounded odd, distant and very, very cold. Joe felt his much-abused heart start to beat faster. “Then you know what’s happened,” he said. “This Edwin Klone guy, he has to be Immortal, doesn’t he? Do you think that Adam…” Joe choked off abruptly. He couldn’t say anything more.

Neither, apparently, could MacLeod. He just took off his coat and slowly folded it across the bar, lingering over the job as if it was the most important thing in the world. “Adam,” he said musingly when he’d finished. “You’ve always been able to call him that, haven’t you Joe?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just think it’s strange, that’s all,” Duncan said evenly. “Strange that you could still call him that, even after you knew the truth. I’ve never been able to, you see. Not after that first moment, when I knew…”

The too-calm, too-composed tone set off all kinds of warning bells in Joe’s head. “Knew what?” he demanded.

“Knew how strong he was, how powerful,” Duncan answered, with an unnerving little smile. “It used to irritate him no end, you know, that I could never remember to call him Adam in public. And he had a point. It *was* dangerous, calling him Methos where just anyone could overhear. The thing was, I just could never manage to make him into something *less*…” MacLeod shrugged, and when he looked at Joe again he seemed to be back from whatever little trip he’d been on, eyes no longer distant but brilliant with immediate pain. “Why do you suppose that is, Joe? That you could call him by that silly, ridiculous mortal name when all I could do was see his power?”

Taken aback, Joe restrained his panic. In truth, he’d stopped thinking of Methos as Adam years ago. He’d only used the name now because he’d been saying it all morning in front of his staff. But why the hell was Duncan bringing up such an unimportant matter? “Maybe it’s because I never saw my Adam as either ridiculous or silly,” Joe said softly. “Mac, what’s wrong with you? Why are you standing here wasting time? It doesn’t matter what you call him. Not when he…when he could be…” He still couldn’t say it. 

Duncan gave him a small, cold smile. “Relax, Joe. I saw him at the dojo less than an hour ago. He’s fine.” The Highlander picked up an empty shot glass off the bar, twisted it in his hands. “Actually, he’s probably better than fine. Coming through crises without a scratch is one of Methos’s great specialties, after all.”

Joe swayed, suddenly very glad that he was sitting down. It wasn’t just like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was like he’d been sinking in quicksand, feeling the suffocating wetness pressing into his nose and mouth, and all of a sudden the sand became sweet, pure air and he could breathe. Methos was alive. Mac had seen him. Everything was going to be all right. “Thank god,” Joe whispered fervently. “Thank, thank god. Mac, you’ve got to tell me what happened. The news made it sound so bad. Edwin Klone…”

“Edwin Klone is just another name for Kronos, Joe,” Duncan answered bitterly. “And I really don’t think that Methos has anything to fear from him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Methos and Kronos aren’t strangers, Joe. They know each other well. Better than well. They were…family.” Duncan spat the last word as if it was most distasteful thing in the world.

“Family?” Joe repeated blankly. And ended up listening, even more blankly, as Duncan explained.

It was a long story, and to Joe, an incredibly unbelievable one. That there had once been a band of brutal Immortals known as the Four Horsemen was improbable enough. That Methos had been one of them was…unthinkable. Methos, slaughtering whole villages just because they were there? Methos, engaging in rape and torture simply because he couldn’t come up with a better way to while away a long winter night? Joe listened incredulously as Duncan talked on…and then, as the story began to wind down, he started getting angry. “Who told you all this?” he demanded. “Cassandra?” 

Duncan nodded tightly. Joe threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Cassandra tells you a long, terrible story accusing Methos of horrific crimes, and you...what, you just believed her? Without even *asking* him first?” Duncan didn’t answer. “Oh my god,” Joe said slowly. “You did, didn’t you. You just took her at her word. And then…what then? You abandoned him to face an Immortal like Melvin Koren on his own? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t abandon him!” Duncan answered heatedly. “He *ran*, Joe. By the time Cassandra had calmed down enough for me to set her free, Methos was long gone. And you weren’t there.” Duncan put the shot glass down and started pacing agitatedly in front of the stage. “You didn’t hear Cassandra tell the story. You didn’t see the way Methos acted when she confronted him. He knew her, Joe. I would swear on my life that he knew her. And then…then he lied. Acted as if he’d never set eyes on her before…”

“Yeah? Well, what the hell would you have done if one of his ex-girlfriends suddenly pulled a sword on *you*?” Joe demanded. “For Christ’s sake, Mac! Methos isn’t like you. He’s too old to take Quickenings easily. He can’t take the sorts of risks you do. You’re supposed to understand that. You’re supposed to look out for him. Otherwise I never would have…” Aware of the sudden flash of curiosity in the Highlander’s eyes, Joe bit off the words and started again. “He’s the man you love, for god’s sake,” he finished instead. “The man you’ve trusted with your heart and with your life. And yet when the first jealous female comes along with a nasty story about him, you’re willing to forget everything you’ve been through to instantly take her side?”

“Cassandra’s *not* jealous, Joe! She doesn’t even know that Methos and I are…” 

Duncan stopped short, cheeks flaming red, but Joe was already pouncing. “Oh, she doesn’t, does she,” he growled. “And why doesn’t she know that, Mac? Why didn’t you tell her?” Duncan stayed silent. Joe’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Because you wanted to keep your options open? Go back to bedding every available female on the planet if this thing with Methos didn’t work out?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why? Because you were worried about tarnishing your image? Because you thought she’d look at you with a little less hero-worship in her eyes if she knew you were shacking up with a guy?” Duncan’s mouth tightened angrily, but he didn’t deny it. Joe shook his head, thoroughly disgusted. “For god’s sake, Highlander,” he said. “Think about who you’re in love with. Think about who you landed. One of the most amazing men to ever walk the face of the planet, that’s who. You ought to be *proud* of him, telling people about him at every opportunity. You shouldn’t be slinking around like you’re ashamed of him. And you *certainly* shouldn’t be buying every story a woman like Cassandra chooses to tell.” Joe snorted. “I mean, it’s not like it’s even a *good* story! I don’t know, Mac. Methos, Kronos, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? I don’t buy it for a moment. And neither should you.”

“I don’t *want* to,” Duncan said wretchedly. “I just…Cassandra was so sure. And Methos has always been so close-mouthed about his past. I can’t help but think...” Duncan looked away for a moment, gathering his composure, and when he spoke again his voice contained a hint of pleading. “Tell me why *you* don’t believe it, Joe. I need to know why not.” 

“You really have to ask?” Looking more haggard than Joe had ever seen him, Duncan nodded. Joe rolled his eyes. “Fine. This is *our* Methos she’s talking about, right? Not the Messenger?” Duncan nodded again. “Well, there’s your answer, then,” Joe said in exasperation. “I’ve known our Methos for a long time now, Mac. And I can assure you, he’s the one Immortal I know that never goes looking for a fight.”

Duncan just shook his head, looking distant. “Because he *can’t*. Because what happened between us meant the consequences would be too terrible to face if he did,” he murmured, and before Joe could demand to know just what *that* was supposed to mean, Duncan cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. “Look. Has he been here?” 

“I ain’t seen him.” Duncan nodded curtly and gathered up his coat, starting to walk away. “Mac!” Joe called after him desperately. “Don’t do this. Don’t just take Cassandra’s word. I mean, this is thousands of years ago that we’re talking about, right? Someone lives with thoughts of revenge for that long, it becomes an obsession. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe she’s delusional!”

“No. Not Cassandra.”

“Mac, maybe she’s a liar!” Joe made a helpless gesture in the air. “I mean, I know you first met when you were just a kid, but how much time have you actually spent in each other’s company? What do you really know about her?”

Duncan turned around, eyes wild with hurt. “What do I really know about Methos? Nothing, Joe. Absolutely nothing,” he spat, so alive with pain that Joe took a physical step back. “The man has slept in my bed almost every night for six weeks, and he might as well still be a stranger for all I know about his past. He likes to drop names, give me tantalizing hints about the places he’s been and the people he’s known, but whenever I ask him a direct question he clams up. Crumbs, that’s all I get—crumbs, and quips, and a handful of fantastic tall-tales that may or may not be true. He could have been anyone, Joe. Could have done anything...”

Duncan’s voice cracked. Despite his own anger, Joe felt his own heart cracking with it. God, how many times had Joe felt like that himself? How many times had he spent an evening staring at a scotch glass wondering why Methos didn’t trust him enough to share the truth of what he was? “Maybe,” he said gruffly. “Methos can be ruthless, I know that. And there’s blood in his past. I know that, too.” He swallowed. “But can you honestly tell me that you think he could have done *this*? That you can imagine Methos murdering women and children for *pleasure*?” 

The question seemed to hang in mid-air. After a long moment, Duncan murmured a quiet ‘no’. “No,” Joe repeated. “You can’t. And Mac, you have to trust that. I mean, sometimes all you have to go with is your gut.”

“It’s just not enough.” 

“Then what would *be* enough?” Joe asked. Duncan just looked frustrated, clearly not having an answer. “Hey, as you know, the Watchers don’t know everything,” Joe said softly. “Hell, you probably know as much about Methos’s history as I do. If it’s hard proof you’re looking for…buddy, I am fresh out.” Duncan nodded dismally. “But that’s no reason to throw away everything you and Methos have been through together,” Joe continued more forcefully. “No reason to believe the worst just on one woman’s say-so. The two of you…you’re bonded. You belong together. You have to…” Fuck. There went his voice now, breaking like an emotional schoolgirl. In another moment he was going to be crying. “You can’t condemn him without more proof. You just can’t.”

Duncan’s eyes were so sad they could have graced a painting of the Madonna, weeping over her lost son. “Then I guess I’m just going to have to find some proof of my own,” he said. “Look, Joe. If he comes by…”

“He won’t,” Joe said. Then he saw the look on Mac’s face, and something in him softened. “But if he does, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Joe. You…you’re a good friend. To both of us.” Duncan gave Joe a wan little smile and walked out. 

“Friend. Yeah, I’m the best damn friend in the world,” Joe murmured. He limped into his office, almost knocking over the huge sheaf of papers waiting in the fax machine’s tray as he did. Hmm. The curators at the Seacouver Archive must have been having an exceptionally dull day if they’d been able to fax him Melvin Koren’s records so fast. Joe picked up the papers and started leafing through them; Melvin Koren’s/Edwin Klone’s/Kronos’s arrogant features stared out at him from several nineteenth century “Wanted” posters, as well as one very faded daguerreotype. Joe took this last from the pile and carried it over to his desk, feeling the same weird sense of familiarity he’d felt when he’d seen Edwin Klone’s photo on the television. He ran a finger over Kronos’s western duster and prominent facial scar, trying to figure out where the feeling came from. And then he froze. 

He *had* seen that face before.

Not personally. Not with his own eyes. But Joe had seen it nonetheless, on that long strange night when his Immortal lover’s memories had somehow gotten tangled with his own. This man, this Kronos, had been in quite a number of those memories. His clothing had been very different, and his skin had been half-covered with tribal paint, but even so the face was unmistakable. Joe sagged where he stood, assaulted by the vividness of those memories…smelling the blood and hearing the screams that seemed to be a part of Methos’s every remembrance of this man, and feeling a sense of pride and belonging so sweet Joe’s fingers curled with it, even now. Joe dropped the photo, mouth dry. Oh, god. If the feelings and images dancing in Joe’s brain were anywhere close to accurate, “family” now seemed a very pale statement of what Methos and Kronos had been together. They’d been lovers, shield mates, brothers-by-blood…

What the hell was he going to do now?

***

When Methos left MacLeod holding the struggling Cassandra in his arms, he had no long-term plans. All he wanted was to make it back to Kronos’s sedan in one piece and drive far away, before Cassandra could spill any more truths and Methos ended up on the wrong side of Duncan’s blade. What Methos would do after he’d accomplished this feat, he had no idea. Which was probably just as well. Because if he *had* made any plans, they would have crumbled the moment he turned on the radio in Kronos’s car. And started listening to the local news. 

Adam Pierson was now a celebrity. His stabbing and disappearance was the leading story on every single station on the dial. At first Methos listened in shock, unable to believe that Kronos had been careless enough to kill him in front of a witness. But then he heard a snippet of Mrs. McGillicudy’s interview, recounting “Edwin Klone’s” final words to her before he dragged Adam’s body away, and he had to pull the car over before his trembling hands could cause an accident. Once parked, he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked in the driver’s seat like a frightened child, feeling the terrible sensation of his entire world being destroyed. No, Kronos hadn’t been careless at all. He’d *intended* Adam Pierson’s death to be seen. He hadn’t wanted Methos to have any life to go back to…

It took Methos a while to get his shaking under control. Once he did, he restarted the car and drove carefully out of the city, pulling the sun visor low and doing his best to avoid eye contact with the other drivers. Mortal humans did not take stab wounds to the chest and then get up to drive the next day; being recognized now would be a disaster. And recognized Methos most certainly would be, thanks to the way his description was clogging the air waves. Mrs. M must have gotten Roger to pull in a lot of favors with his colleagues in order to get Methos’s disappearance covered quite so lavishly. She probably thought she was doing Methos a favor. Irony, irony! She had only succeeded in taking away the only refuge Methos had. There was no way he could go back to the Second Chance to get his hidden stash of spare IDs now. The bank deposit box where he kept his other emergency papers was even further out of reach. Methos’s hands tightened grimly on the steering wheel. Completely alone, left with only the small amount of cash he had in his pockets, Kronos had seen to it that Methos had only one option left…very well, he’d take it. He’d return to Kronos. He’d smile and murmur flattering words and pretend to be the loving brother just long enough to get Kronos into a vulnerable position. And then…well. 

It seemed that the world would finally learn just what happened when an Immortal who’d already surrendered everything took a head. 

Kronos was standing atop a metal scaffold when Methos arrived, surveying the dark and dreary power station as proprietarily as if it were a medieval kingdom and Kronos was its king. “So,” he said without preamble. “You’re back.”

*Stay calm. There’s no need to tip your hand just yet.* Methos summoned up his best harmless Adam Pierson smile. It came out looking a bit twisted, but it was the best he could do. “What did you think I’d do?” he answered. “Run and hide? Go somewhere you couldn’t find me?”

“No.” Kronos shook his head. “You’re much too smart for that. You know I’d track you down.” He smiled at Methos charmingly. “And that I’d kill you when I did.”

Methos suppressed a wave a total disgust. Kronos had said the last words like a lover, as if the threat to kill was really an endearment Kronos expected Methos to thrill to. But the truly disgusting thing was that, once upon a time, Methos would have. If he hadn’t been the one saying them himself… “Seems like you’ve done a bit of that already,” Methos said out loud, slowly moving closer as he touched the place on his chest where Kronos’s dagger had penetrated. “Every station on this coast is reporting my death. I’ll never be able to use Adam Pierson’s identity again.”

“There will be no need.” 

“Are you sure of that?”

“Oh, yes.” Kronos nodded staunchly. “That life is over for you, Methos. Never again will you have to hide behind an idiotic mortal name. Never again will you have to pretend to be less than you are.” His eyes gleamed. “*I* know what you are, my brother. You are mine. And I never, ever intend to let you go.”

Methos gave another twisted smile in response. How many times had he wanted to hear someone, anyone, say what Kronos had just said? How terrible was it to hear it now? *Oh, Joe. If only it could have been you…* “Well, it’s nice to feel wanted.”

“Not want. Need, Methos. Need!” Kronos shouted. Methos jumped, startled by the whiplash change of mood. Kronos climbed down from the scaffolding, the air around him practically vibrating with the force of his emotions. “A dozen times I tried to take up the old ways, but I failed. The others I rode with were trash, scum. I had no one to plan my raids. No one who understood the true use of terror.” Kronos looked at Methos admiringly. “You were one of a kind, my Methos. As were we all. There was never a band like us. Never in all of history.”

Kronos turned his back and walked away, fiddling over some electronics equipment he had lined up in the corner. Methos quietly drew his sword. “You took a risk, letting me out of your sight today,” he said to cover the sound of his approaching footsteps. “I wonder why you did.”

Kronos stiffened for only a fraction of a section, then relaxed. “A lot of time has passed since we rode together. I had to be sure of you,” he answered, so utterly arrogant he didn’t even seem to be aware of his vulnerability. At that moment, Methos wanted nothing more than to wipe that arrogance off the face of the earth forever. He raised the sword and swung.

And it was horrible. Terrible. The most nightmarish thing to happen in a day full of nightmarish happenings. The Ivanhoe, Methos’s trusted companion for so many years, actually twisted in his grip, directing the energy of the blow uselessly to the side instead of crushing down into Kronos’s skull. Methos felt the blade clumsily connect, but not with flesh—it actually seemed to *bounce* off of thin air, hitting an invisible shield. Quick as a rattlesnake, Kronos turned, easily pushing the sword away as he placed a dagger against Methos’s throat. “And now I am,” Kronos finished. He sounded taunting. Amused.

For a moment Methos was bewildered. Then Kronos drew a caressing line around his throat with the dagger, provoking the same erotic thrill of submission Methos had so often felt with MacLeod, and the truth came clear. Once upon a time, Methos had been his mad brother’s equal, but that was no longer true. The millennia had been good to Kronos, strengthening his power and his will…but those same years had left Methos weakened, too weak to get in even a single blow. Kronos’s stronger Quickening now formed a shield Methos couldn’t penetrate, simply pushing his attack away…and leaving Methos trembling with the knowledge that he really could die here, could fall without being able to defend himself at all. He felt Kronos’s breath on his face. The other Immortal stood very close as he twisted the Ivanhoe out of Methos’s hand, then shifted his grip to Methos’s wrist, squeezing the pulse point lightly with his fingers. “Well, well, brother,” Kronos murmured. “I see I’m not the only one who remembers the games we used to play.” 

“Kronos…”

“Shhh. It’s all right, brother. You don’t need to explain.” Kronos slid his hand up Methos’s arm to his chest, lightly caressing one of Methos’s nipples through his sweater. “You never could simply submit to my will, could you? You always had to put up some sham of a fight, even when we both knew you’d surrender after just one blow. You always needed there to be some pretense...”

For a moment, Methos could only stare. Then he had to fight down the urgent need to vomit. Somehow, Kronos had missed the true meaning of what had just happened. He actually thought Methos had thrown the brief fight on purpose, as…as some kind of *foreplay*. And why wouldn’t he? Kronos was right. It was exactly the sort of game they would once have played together, and it was that bit of knowledge that made Methos want to lose his lunch more than anything else. Kronos relaxed his hold on the dagger. Methos stumbled back in an agony of self-loathing, unable to fully comprehend that this could actually be happening. “Don’t you understand?” he shouted in desperation, both to Kronos and to the entire world that seemed so determined to punish him. “I’m not like that anymore. I have changed.” 

“No.” Kronos was so certain, so sure. “You pretended to, that’s all. Maybe you even convinced yourself that you had. But it was all a lie. Inside, you’re still there, Methos.” Kronos leaned against the wall, absolutely comfortable, supremely confident. “You’re like me.”

Methos couldn’t believe his ears. “Like you?” he repeated.

“You still crave the old ways,” Kronos answered. “You were never more alive then when you rode at my side, Methos. If I close my eyes, I can still see it…see you up on your horse with blood streaking your face paint, watching you smile as some woman begged you to spare her children’s life. It was a magnificent sight, my brother. *You* were magnificent.” Kronos’s eyes swept over Methos from head to toe in a lusty, possessive way, and much to Methos’s embarrassment, he felt his cheeks grow warm. Kronos stalked toward him, possessive as a panther. “Tell me you haven’t missed it.”

Methos’s eyes flew wide. “The killing?” he said incredulously.

“The freedom! The power! Riding out of the sun knowing that you're the most terrifying thing they've ever seen. Knowing that their weapons and their gods are useless against you, that you're the last thing they'll ever see. *That’s* what you are meant to be, Methos. At my side.” Methos closed his eyes and shook his head desperately. “Don’t deny it. Feel it,” Kronos encouraged him, using the seductive voice that held the thrill of a thousand erotic memories—and which brought the remembered sounds of screaming and thundering hoof beats into Methos’s mind, making him feel it all again. When Methos began to shake Kronos moved away, apparently well satisfied. “I’m going to do you a favor,” he said. “You know Cassandra’s in town.”

The abrupt shift in topic threw him. Methos forced out a gruff response. “Yes, I know,” he said. “We didn’t exactly exchange gifts.”

“Then you know that she’ll kill you if she gets a chance.” Methos nodded again. Kronos tsked. “You never could bring yourself to take her head, could you? So I'm going to do it for you.”

Methos leaned against a handy railing, trying to make his battered mind think logically. At that particular moment he couldn’t find it in himself to regard the possibility of Cassandra’s death with any grief, but he knew there had to be a catch. With Kronos, there always was. “And in return?”

“You kill Duncan MacLeod.”

Maybe this wasn’t a nightmare. Maybe Cassandra had somehow managed to take his head back in Duncan’s dojo after all, and this was the hell where the gods sent bad Immortals who were too strong to be absorbed. Why else would Kronos have just demanded that Methos do the one thing Methos knew he could never, ever do? “But he’s my friend,” Methos answered, knowing that it would be suicide to confess the true nature of their relationship. Kronos would take his head at once rather than risk the chance of Methos ever surrendering his essence to another. “He’s nothing to you. Why?”

“Why?” For the first time, Kronos looked genuinely upset. “*Because* he’s your friend. Because *you* still need to prove yourself. And because YOU OWE ME!” Methos jumped. Kronos waited until the echoes of his shout had died away, then he spoke again, softly, savagely. “All those centuries without you…oh, yes, you owe me, my brother. And I can’t think of a better way to prove your loyalty than to cut all your ties with your current life, even the Immortal ones. Hear me well, Methos. From this moment on, you are *mine.* You will have no friends but me. And you will do everything that I command.” Kronos lifted the dagger and slid it across his own palm, leaving a bloody gash behind. “Now. Swear it in blood, my brother. Swear you will forsake all others. And swear that you will kill Duncan MacLeod.”

Methos hesitated. But he was not a child, to believe there was any magic in the cutting of a hand, anything truly binding in the mingling of blood. He could give his word now and would just be another lie, no different from the ones he’d told MacLeod, or himself. Methos took the dagger and cut. “I swear.”

Kronos smiled.

***

Sometime later, Methos lay with his clothes scattered in shreds around the room, the coat beneath his body the only thing keeping his clammy skin from sticking to the floor. Kronos was lying in a similar state just a few feet away. “Oh, I *have* missed you, brother,” Kronos murmured, licking his lips with evident satisfaction. “Nobody else’s blood has ever tasted quite so sweet.”

Disgusted, Methos pushed himself up. He tried to tell himself that the events of the last half hour didn’t matter. He’d whored himself out often enough over the millennia, after all. This was no different than any of the other times he’d used his body to purchase his survival. Except that it felt different, somehow. Full of shame and pain and regret…Methos picked up MacLeod’s sweater, fingering the small bloodstain at the collar where Kronos’s teeth had pierced the hollow of his throat. “You might at least have let me pack a bag before you killed me off,” Methos said aloud, surveying the rest of his tattered clothes. “How am I supposed to get close enough to kill MacLeod if I look like an extra from a bad horror film?”

“Oh, surely not a horror film, my brother. The finest of pornography, I’d say,” Kronos answered, leering. “But I do take your point. You’ll want fresh clothes, and weapons, too. Don’t worry. You can go back to your apartment any time you want. Without being seen.”

Methos snapped his head around so fast that the still-healing bites on his shoulders protested angrily. “Excuse me?”

“I cut several of the gas lines in the building’s basement while you were gone this afternoon,” Kronos answered calmly. “The whole place should be abandoned by now.” He caught Methos’s horrified expression. “Oh, don’t worry, brother. Your things will be intact. I called the peons at the gas company myself before there could be any danger of an explosion. I simply wanted the building to be evacuated in case you wanted to go back.” Kronos yawned lazily. “The police cordoned the whole place off late this afternoon, and it will stay that way, until the cut lines can be repaired tomorrow. Nobody will bother you if you’re careful not to be seen.”

Freedom suddenly beckoned to Methos as sweetly as the scent of freshly-baked bread beckons to a starving man. He could go home, access his emergency stash. With a few thousand dollars in his pockets and a fresh ID in his wallet Methos could go anywhere and become anything, practically disappear off the face of the earth. But at what price had his freedom been purchased? Had Mrs. M and the other residents of the Second Chance survived the leak? Methos desperately wanted to ask, but he knew Kronos would condemn any such worry for a mortal as a weakness. If Methos made the mistake of expressing his concern and Mrs. McGillicudy wasn’t already dead, Kronos would shortly make sure that she was, just to teach Methos the folly of his ways. “Well,” Methos said, striving to keep his voice calm. “That was…very thoughtful of you, Kronos.”

“Anything for you, my brother,” Kronos said cheerfully. “Now that you’ve proven your loyalty in so many delightful ways, I think you’ve earned a little freedom, don’t you?” Methos swallowed hard and looked away. “If you’re very careful,” Kronos continued, “you should even be able to retrieve that rather nice American auto of yours. If we change the plates, it will be much more comfortable for our trip to Canada than that trashy sedan I’ve been driving.”

“We’re going to Canada?”

“For now,” Kronos answered. “I must admit that all this publicity does have a downside, my brother. We’ll need to leave the country before I’m recognized, and Canada seems the logical place to go. I think I’m only wanted under four or five different names, there.” Kronos laid back, arms stretched over his head as he surveyed Methos lustily. “Go on, then. Get your things, kill MacLeod. And then come back to me.” 

Trying to ignore the fact that Kronos had just spoken of killing MacLeod in exactly the same tone with which Joe would have once have sent him out for pizza, Methos started gathering his clothes. Kronos eyed his ass appreciatively as he did, but Methos ignored that, too. He only had a few minutes to go, now. All he had to do was get dressed, drive to the Second Chance, sneak into his apartment, and he’d be a new man under a new name, ready to disappear forever. But then Kronos spoke again, and Methos had the immediate sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to be that easy. “Oh. And Methos?”

“Yes?”

“If you even *think* about using one of those spare passports I know you’re going to retrieve to run from me, I will slaughter every mortal in Seacouver who ever spoke two words to you. I mean everyone, from your landlady to your coworkers to the teenager who sold you beer at the convenience store last week. Then I’ll track down your friend MacLeod and kill every mortal *he* knows, too, and make sure he understands that you are the reason why before I take his head. Are we understood?”

It was like having the knife stabbed into his chest all over again. Methos knew many mortals, as did Duncan, but at that moment there was only one he cared about. *Joe. Oh, no. Joe.* Dreams of freedom suddenly lying in broken pieces around his feet, Methos gave a ghastly grin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, earning himself a blinding smile from his insane brother. He gathered his things and left.

***

The moment Methos had driven out of sight of the power station he found a pay phone and dialed—first the lobby of the Second Chance, at which there was no answer, and then Roger’s home. A seemingly endless time passed while the phone rang, and then Methos heard Mrs. McGillicudy’s voice saying “Hello?” Methos sagged against the walls of the phone booth, silently rejoicing as Mrs. M said the greeting several times, getting more peevish with each repetition. At last she said something tart about Roger’s gay friends who were too shy to even say hello to his mother and hung up, leaving Methos smiling even as sorrow filled his heart. He was going to miss the feisty landlady. But it was good, amazingly good, to know she’d gotten out of the gas leak unharmed. He hung up the phone and drove back into the city. 

It was a bit eerie, arriving at the Second Chance to find it completely abandoned, the gas company’s bright orange warning signs on every entrance and yellow police tape festooning the parking lot. Methos irritably detached the tape from his SUV and went inside the apartment house, ignoring the lingering smell of gas as he gathered travel supplies with well-practiced efficiency. Passports. Weapons. Clean jeans and sweaters. A heavy winter coat and enough food and water for several days of hiking, since it was extremely unlikely he and Kronos could cross into Canada in the typical way. They’d have to abandon the Jimmy at the border, make the rest of the crossing on foot. For a moment Methos felt a strong pang of regret at the thought of abandoning the car he’d originally bought with so much hope, thinking he’d share it with Joe—then he hardened his heart. He couldn’t afford such sentimentality. As Kronos had said, that life was over now. It was time to leave the past behind.

He ended up with one very full backpack and two overflowing file boxes, enough to require more than one trip to the car. On the second trip down, Methos was confronted with the unmistakable feeling of an Immortal presence. And not just any Immortal presence, either. MacLeod’s. The T-bird was parked at the edge of the lot, evidently having driven up while Methos was still inside. And Duncan MacLeod himself had already gotten out of the driver’s side, and was stalking toward Methos across the lot. “Going somewhere?” he asked. The irony in his voice was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. 

Methos shivered. The Highlander’s Quickening felt a bit shaky now, but it was still unfathomably powerful, filled with the tingle of barely restrained rage. And Kronos actually thought Methos possessed the strength necessary to force this man to his knees? Ridiculous. Laughable. The only question was just how painfully Kronos was going to punish him for failing. “You shouldn’t be here, MacLeod,” Methos said as calmly as he could, opening the back hatch of the SUV. “It isn’t safe.” 

“Why? Because of the gas leak? I’m Immortal, Methos. I think I’ll survive.” The Highlander looked around the parking lot, eyes lingering on the warning signs by the entrance. “Although I will say that it seems like Mrs. McGillicudy is having a very bad week.” 

Methos dropped a file box into the car with a frustrated thump. “Yes. I know,” he said tightly. “Doubtless it will begin to improve soon.”

“Why? Because you’re leaving?” Methos shot him an exasperated, what-does-it-look-like glare, and Duncan threw back his head with a mirthless laugh. “What am I saying? Of course you’re leaving. I can’t believe I ever expected you to do anything else.” 

“Then at least you’ve learned something about me, in the time we’ve been together,” Methos said tartly. “Don’t look so surprised, MacLeod. It’s what I do. Live, grow stronger, fight another day…”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard. I’m not going to stop you from running, Methos. I just want to know what you’re running *from.*” Duncan took a few steps forward. “From Kronos? From Cassandra? From me, and the question you know I’m going to ask?” His voice lowered. “Or from the answer?”

Methos felt his entire body slump. He really, really didn’t need this now. Already he could feel Duncan’s Quickening tingling around him, wrapping him in comfort despite Duncan’s obvious distress; the sensation was addictive, and every second he experienced it would make it that much harder for him to leave. And leave he must. For all their sakes. “There is no answer, MacLeod,” Methos said quietly, and hoped it would be sufficient. “Let it be.”

“Is what she said true?”

No, not sufficient. Methos opened his mouth…and closed it again without speaking. What, after all, could he say? How could he tell a person like MacLeod that the man he’d spent the last six weeks sleeping beside was capable of sexual crimes that made Caligula look like an amateur? He couldn’t. Some things not even five thousand years of life gave a man the strength to face. “I’m outta here,” Methos said helplessly. He closed the SUV’s hatch, and started to make his escape. 

He didn’t move fast enough. Duncan was suddenly in front of him, aggressively placing his body between Methos and the driver’s side door, blocking Methos’s way. “No,” the Highlander said, voice harsh. “No, you’re not ‘outta here’, Methos. I can’t let you go. Not until you’ve given me a straight answer. You owe me that much.” Duncan’s tongue licked out to nervously moisten his lips, and Methos had the startling thought that Duncan might actually be just as frightened of hearing the truth as Methos was of telling it. “So I’ll ask you again, as many times as it takes. Is what Cassandra said true?”

What could he do? Methos didn’t want to answer. He really, *really* didn’t want to answer. But it was clear that Duncan wasn’t going to let him go without him saying something. “The times were different, MacLeod,” Methos said heavily, trying to soften the facts as much as he could. Not with an excuse, there could never be an excuse. But perhaps with an explanation that would make it easier for Duncan to bear. “I was different. The whole bloody *world* was different. Okay?”

He saw Duncan’s eyes widen. The next words came out as a hoarse whisper. “Did you kill all those people?”

Methos’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Ah, so that was the part of “what she said” that was so troubling MacLeod, was it? Not Methos’s treatment of Cassandra herself—not the rapes, not the mental and physical tortures that had left her so broken she’d actually started looking at Methos as a savior, not even the final, unforgivable sin of caring too little about her to chase her down when she escaped. Had Cassandra even told Duncan that part of the story at all? Or had she just relied on Methos’s other crimes to arouse Duncan’s righteous indignation, without adding any of the sticky personal details that might make Duncan doubt her motives? Clever, clever Cassandra. Methos couldn’t have played it better himself. But in the end it didn’t matter what she’d said, how she had manipulated the situation. There could only be one answer, after all. “Yes,” Methos said, and took some small wounded pride in the way MacLeod flinched from him, in the way his embracing Quickening flinched and faltered, too. “Is that what you want to hear? Killing was all I knew. Is *that* what you wanted to hear?”

Duncan stared. There was a whole universe of pain showing in his eyes, a universe made up of the deep hurt of betrayal, and the sight made Methos want to weep. For MacLeod and his innocent Boy Scout heart which Methos had just broken. For himself and the lost sanctuary of MacLeod’s love which Methos should have always known he’d never been good enough to deserve. For a second Methos thought Duncan was going to cry as well, and he steeled himself for that, steeled himself to resist the tears and the comfort Methos would yearn to give. But then MacLeod’s expression changed. His spine straightened. His eyes grew cold. And suddenly he was looking at Methos as if he was the most loathsome thing on earth. “It’s enough,” he said. And started to walk away.

Methos should have let him go. He should have let him get in the T-Bird and drive stormily away, and have never, ever seen him again--unless it was under the shadow of their two crossed swords. But he didn’t. Instead, he reached out and hauled him back, throwing the Highlander against the side of the SUV with enough force to shake the car. He told himself that he did it for pride—that if he was going to be damned, he wanted it to be for his own true savageries, not for whatever fantasies Cassandra had used to fill Duncan’s head. He also acknowledged his anger—the cold, harsh, irrefutable anger that made him want to punish MacLeod for abandoning him, and for being so stupid as to have ever loved him in the first place. It would be years before Methos could admit that he wanted to punish himself, as well. “No. It is *not* enough,” Methos said harshly, secretly thrilling at the sensation of having the Highlander once again under his hands, at the surprise and fear that trembled in the Scotsman’s muscles. “I killed. But I didn’t just kill fifty, or a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed *ten* thousand. And you know what?” He smiled, madly, terrifyingly. Duncan shrunk away, and Methos secretly rejoiced at the sight. He said the next words with great relish. “I was *good* at it.” 

Duncan made a small sound, of disgust or fear, Methos couldn’t be sure. He slid sideways, trying to get away, but Methos wasn’t done with him yet. He held him firmly, trapping him with an upraised knee, close enough to kiss or kill. “And do you want to know why?” he continued, determined that Duncan should know the full horror of it, be spared no detail. “It wasn’t for vengeance. It wasn’t for greed. It was because…I *liked* it.” He raised a fist expressively in the air. “Cassandra was nothing. Her village was nothing. Do you know who I was?” Methos let out a maniacal laugh. “I was Death.”

It all happened very fast. Duncan moved again—and suddenly Methos was the one being held against the car, MacLeod’s body pinning him into place. Methos didn’t care. He just kept laughing, the memories he’d been suppressing ever since Kronos first appeared now parading boldly through his mind, teasing him with illusions of power and strength. “Yes, Death! Death on a Horse!” he shouted. “When mothers warned their children that the monster would eat them, that monster was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Is *that* what you want to hear?” Duncan shook his head furiously, but Methos wasn’t about to let him off that easy. “The answer you’re looking for is yes,” he said, giving the words a relish that made the Highlander flinch, made the knife Methos was stabbing into him twist just that final bit more. “Oh, *yes*.”

For a long moment silence reigned. It was the same silence that follows an explosion or a Quickening, the terrible silence that exists only because all energy has been spent and there is nothing left to do or say. Finally, heartbreakingly, Duncan stepped back. “We’re through,” he said. 

Methos nodded solemnly. It was, after all, exactly what he had expected. Duncan nodded back, just as solemn. And then he was gone, striding across the parking lot to throw his coat in through the window of the T-Bird as if he longed to smash it, getting in and driving away. 

This time, Methos did not stop him.

***

Joe Dawson’s head was in a spin. 

For the last fifteen minutes, he’d been standing in Duncan MacLeod’s loft, listening while Mac angrily recounted everything Methos had said to him outside the Second Chance. The way he’d confirmed Cassandra’s story. The way he’d added some chilling embellishments of his own. “It doesn’t make sense,” Joe said now. “You’ve got to be missing something, Mac. You must have misunderstood.”

“Oh, he made himself perfectly clear,” Duncan answered coldly. “Joe, you can’t defend it.”

“I’m not defending it,” Joe answered. “I’m trying to *understand* it.” And he was. Ever since he’d recognized Kronos in the old daguerreotype, Joe’s mind had been in a jumble, trying to make sense of the swirl of Methos-memories the picture had triggered. All Joe had to do was close his eyes and he could feel hot sun, hear thundering hoofs, and see blood flowing in a torrent to coat Methos’s face and hands. He could even feel the fierce sense of satisfaction that had filled Methos’s heart at the sight. The problem was, Joe could see other things, as well. He could see the same hands, free of blood, reaching out to touch Darius with affection across a chess board. He could see a dark-haired boy…Carlo?...laughing merrily as those fingers wiped something sticky from his face. And from his own memory, Joe could see all the times those hands had carried a guitar for him or made a meal, teased him into ecstasy or simply rubbed the knots from his muscles after a stressful day. “It makes no sense,” Joe said again, trying desperately to reconcile the disparate images. “There’s got to be something more. Some part of the story we’re just not getting.”

“What’s to understand?” Duncan demanded. “When he rode into a village, there was life. When he rode out, there wasn’t. What could be simpler than that?”

“You weren’t there.” Duncan made a disgusted sound and paced angrily away. “Different times, MacLeod!” Joe shouted after him. “Different morals. You can’t compare.”

“Oh, I won’t compare it,” Duncan replied savagely. “And I won’t excuse it. He *lied* to us, Joe. Everything he said, every story he ever told…they were all games.” Duncan paced furiously to his couch. “My god. The things he’s done…”

“Yeah?” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “And how many men have *you* killed? How much blood have *you* shed in anger?”

“I know what I’ve done,” Duncan answered, in a low, emotional-filled tone that under other circumstances would have had Joe aching in sympathy. “And I live with it. But this…I’m telling you, Joe. This is different.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a bunch of murdering bastards that burned and raped their way across two continents!” Duncan shouted. “They butchered innocent women and children, Joe. You live with that. You see that.”

“I have,” Joe said quietly. Duncan looked startled. “Vietnam,” Joe continued. “When we took out a village, we couldn’t tell the farmers from the soldiers. You think…” Joe’s voice choked. “You think somehow the bullets managed to miss all the children?”

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“Because…” Duncan’s voice faltered, and for a moment, just a moment, Joe thought he’d gotten through to him. But then Duncan sank back down onto the couch, shaking his head. “Because he loved it,” Duncan said leadenly. “Because he had pleasure in killing.”

“And you haven’t?” Joe countered. “Are you honestly going to tell me that you’ve never enjoyed taking a life? Never fallen in love with the power of it? Never taken pleasure in knowing that you were strong enough to destroy something that could never exist again?” Duncan stayed gloweringly silent. “Because I sure as hell have,” Joe said. “During the war…there were times after I tossed a grenade when I felt taller than God. Not often. Usually I just wanted to throw up and run back to my mama in the States. But it happened. And if you, Duncan MacLeod, try to tell me that in four hundred years of life you’ve never felt the same way, I will call you a liar to your face.”

Duncan was quiet for a very long time. When he finally answered the words were rough, like they were being ripped out of his throat against his will. “I’ve felt it,” he said. “I won’t lie to you, Joe. I’ve felt it. But I’ve never killed *just* to feel it. That’s the difference. Methos has.” Duncan looked bleakly out the window. “And nothing I saw today told me that he wasn’t capable of doing it again.”

The words sunk into Joe like an anvil descending into quicksand. Unbidden, more of Methos’s memories suddenly arrived in his mind: he tasted blood on his lips, felt Methos’s gleeful anticipation for more. “He was really that bad?”

“He was really that bad,” Duncan answered gravely. “Look, Joe. I know how you feel about him. I know you two have been friends for a long time. But the man I saw this afternoon…I’m telling you, he was a completely different person. He was nobody’s friend.” 

“I can’t believe that.”

“Believe it. It’s true.” Duncan’s hands tightened on his knees. “He *laughed*, Joe. He told me he’d slaughtered tens of thousands of people, that he was *good* at it, and then he laughed. It was like the Methos I knew wasn’t there at all.”

“We have to be missing something,” Joe repeated helplessly, as if saying it again would somehow make it true. The cell phone in his pocket began to chime. Joe took it out. “Dawson.” His eyes widened. “Yeah, okay. I see. Thanks.” He hung up.

Duncan was watching him closely. “What is it?” he demanded.

“It’s Kronos. We’ve found him. He’s at an abandoned power station down by the old south docks. You know, the ones about ten miles out of town.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have a Watcher on Kronos!”

“We don’t. We have one on Cassandra. She led us to him.”

“You mean she…” Duncan went white. “Oh god. She’s going to Challenge Kronos. She doesn’t stand a chance. I have to stop her.” He rushed into the elevator.

“Mac! Wait!” 

Duncan hesitated, hands on the grate. “What, Joe?”

“What are you going to do when you see Methos? If he’s there when you find Kronos?”

Duncan seemed to deflate for a moment, his every muscle sagging with discouragement and pain. Then he swallowed, and suddenly all the life went out of his eyes. “What I have to.”

Joe saw the cold, dead look, and it terrified him. “No,” he said slowly, disbelieving. “You can’t. You can’t even be thinking about Challenging him. Not *Methos*!”

“And just who is Methos, Joe?” Duncan said sharply. “The man we both trusted with our lives? Or the man who could commit genocide and laugh about it like it was the best joke he’d ever heard?” Joe didn’t answer, but his eyes must have reflected his pain, because Duncan softened. “Look, I’ll do the best I can by him,” he said quietly. “I won’t let Cassandra get near him, and I…I won’t Challenge him myself unless he gives me a reason. But if…if…”

“Yeah?” Joe’s eyes were wet. He squeezed down his lids tightly, both to keep the tears from escaping and because he didn’t want to look the Highlander in the face. “And if he gives you a reason?”

“Then it’s like I said. I’ll do what I have to,” Duncan answered grimly. “That’s what being Immortal *is*, Joe. Doing what has to be done.” He gave the elevator grate a sharp tug. “Let yourself out.” 

Joe waited until the elevator had carried the Highlander out of sight. Then he wiped his eyes irritably with the back of his hand, took out his phone, and dialed Cassandra’s Watcher. Maybe Mac was right; maybe being Immortal *was* about doing what one had to do. But if that was true, so was being mortal. And Joe had a job to do, too. “Liz? Yeah, it’s me, Joe Dawson,” he said when the field agent picked up, managing with a Herculean effort to keep his voice from cracking. “Listen, I’m calling you off. All Watcher operations on Cassandra are suspended until further notice. We finally ID’d that Immortal she’s been Hunting. It’s Edwin Klone. That’s right, the terrorist, the one who’s been in the news all day. The one who…” Joe swallowed. “The one who killed Adam Pierson.” Joe listened to Liz’s shocked exclamation. “I know, I know. Look, you better get out of there. Klone’s a real piece of work. Your odds of living to enjoy your next vacation are getting smaller with every moment you’re within a mile of that nut. Yeah. Yeah, you do that. I’ll be in touch.”

He closed the phone. There. Whatever happened now, only one Watcher by the name of Joe Dawson would witness it. He’d kept Methos’s secret for this long; he would continue to keep it as long as he could. Even if…even if it turned out that what he’d been protecting had always been a lie. 

He pushed the button to recall the elevator and made his way out.

***

Methos took his time returning to the power station. Why hurry, when his fate was already sealed? He knew precisely what kind of life awaited him at Kronos’s side, and there was no point in returning to it a moment sooner than he had to. He sat in the parking lot of the Second Chance for a long, long time, then drove to a nearby park—where he turned up his collar to hide his face and stuck to the shadows until he found a lonely bench near the water, abandoned by everyone but the birds. He took out one of the granola bars he’d packed into his pockets and fed them, breaking the treat into ever-smaller pieces while the birds swarmed around his feet. There was something very peaceful in the quiet sounds they made, and the way their somewhat bedraggled feathers still shone beautifully in the sun. It seemed the ideal way to say goodbye. Methos made the snack last as long as he could, and when the very last crumb had been devoured he held up his hands apologetically. “Sorry. Only the wrapper left,” he said, and the birds immediately departed, flying away in search of other handouts. Methos smiled at their innocent greed, then returned to his car. It was getting late, and Kronos would want to leave while there was still at least a little sunshine left. He’d tarried long enough. 

A few miles from the station’s turn off Methos suddenly saw a very familiar convertible, approximately six car lengths ahead. Methos swore and pulled hard against his seatbelt, straining to get a better look. There could be no question about it: the thunderbird definitely belonged to Duncan MacLeod. Who, judging by the speed he was driving and the turns he was making, was not just out for a casual afternoon drive. He was going to the power station. To Kronos…

Methos gunned his own SUV, determined to catch up…only to get stopped at a railroad track while the T-bird roared on ahead. Methos swore with even more venom, pounding on the steering wheel as he waited for the seemingly endless train to the pass. By the time he did finally make it to the power station, MacLeod was nowhere to be seen. But the T-bird was there, parked haphazardly next to cherry red Mercedes with “SPRBTCH” written on its license plate. Cassandra’s, of course. Who else would drive such a vehicle here? Well, at least that told him how Duncan had managed to find the bat cave: Kronos must have left quite a trail of breadcrumbs for Cassandra to follow, and Duncan would naturally follow Cassandra. But damn, her presence complicated things. Methos circled the building, parked, and let himself in the back way, wondering what he was going to find inside.

The moment he entered the building, three distinctive Immortal signatures greeted him. It was easy to pick out Duncan and his agitated Quickening chasing fruitlessly around the lower levels; god knew, the power station could seem like a maze at the best of times, and Duncan’s disturbed mind wasn’t making it any easier. Doubtlessly the Highlander would find his way upstairs eventually, but for now he was safely out of the way. Which just left Kronos and Cassandra on the upper floor. Methos closed his eyes, trying to read the energy…oh, shit. The two were clearly fighting a Challenge. And Cassandra, the stupid, stupid woman, was in trouble. Had she really believed she could take Kronos alone? Her Quickening was already badly weakened, although she had yet to surrender completely. She seemed to have resorted to the ages-old tactic of running away, winding through the power station’s labyrinth of abandoned equipment to buy herself more time. Methos shook his head and drew his sword, moving quietly to intercept her. When Cassandra suddenly appeared on a ladder in front of him he was behind her before she could react. He smacked her squarely across the head with the pommel.

The “oof” sound Cassandra made as she crumpled was very satisfying, but Methos hadn’t done it for revenge. He hadn’t done it for mercy, either, even if it did save her from a much more fatal collision with Kronos’s sword. It was pragmatism, plain and simple. If Duncan was going to Challenge Kronos, he did *not* need Cassandra distracting him by sticking her pretty nose into the battle at the wrong moment, or worse, getting herself made into a hostage to be used against him. Methos had to get her out of there, and knocking her unconscious seemed the easiest way to accomplish it. He scooped her up, staggering under her weight—why the hell couldn’t MacLeod ever fall for a short woman, anyway?—and carried her out of the station to the top of the hydroelectric dam outside. He stumbled to the edge, determined to drop her into the raging river below.

Cassandra’s eyes fluttered open. “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” she murmured.

Part of him wanted to tell her she was right. If he *had* killed her, so many years ago, he and Duncan could be facing Kronos together now as the uneasy lovers and allies they’d become, not as…not as enemies. But all he did was shake his head soberly, arm muscles screaming as he struggled to keep her upright. “I never wanted you dead, Cassandra.”

“No, of course not,” she answered with a bitter trill of a laugh. “I was far too much fun to torture. But of course you have other playthings now.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Duncan MacLeod,” Cassandra answered. “Was it fun tarnishing his innocence, Methos? Or did you really fall for him, think that his love would somehow wipe your filthy soul clean? You should have known better, you stupid fool.” She looked directly into Methos’s eyes, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. “You’ve lost him. You would have even if I’d never come to Seacouver. Sooner or later, he would have glimpsed the real you. And no one who does that can ever react with anything but disgust...” 

His only answer was to let her go. Gravity did its usual efficient work, carrying Cassandra down to the river like a stone. The tie of her overcoat came free as she fell, clinging to his sweater. Methos angrily plucked it free and sent it after her, loathing the woman with his whole heart. He didn’t even look down when he heard the splash. He just turned away, disgusted with Cassandra, even more disgusted with himself. But as he turned, Methos saw something that made him pause. A metallic flash…

Methos stopped in his tracks. Shielding his eyes, he returned to the railing and peered at the scene below, ignoring the billowing stream of bubbles where Cassandra had sunk in favor of scanning parking lot beside the river. He was sure he’d seen…there. Yes, there had indeed been a metallic flash coming from the parking lot: the giveaway glint of sunshine off a pair of shiny Watcher binoculars. And the equally bright flash from a very familiar cane.

He was being Watched. By Joe.

In the frozen moments that followed, Methos thought about many things. He thought about the sound of clashing swords that had started echoing inside the station, what would happen to Joe if Kronos won and happened to find Joe watching. He thought about Cassandra’s words, about the look on Duncan’s face when he’d told Methos they were through, about the way Joe had rejected him even after he tried so hard. He thought about the Horsemen, what they had done and been, how some mistakes could never truly be forgiven. And suddenly he knew what he had to do. Ever since Kronos’s dagger had first appeared in his chest, he’d been running scared, reacting to events without a clear plan; now it was time to stop running and take control. His goal was clear. The means to reach it were in his hands.

All he had to do was make use of them.

Smoothly, efficiently, Methos returned to the station and began gathering supplies. He upended a gas can and poured a lethal river across the concrete floor, knowing from the sounds of the fighting that Kronos and MacLeod would soon be carried to it. He filled a glass bottle with more gas, shoved a rag into its slender neck, and watched while Kronos drove MacLeod into the room, pressing him so fiercely that neither man noticed the gasoline splashing around his boots. Methos waited until the bulk of the gasoline was between them, cutting a sharp, dark line between the two warriors. Then he lit the rag and threw.

The firestorm erupted like something out of a pyromaniac’s wet dream, exploding like a volcano, roaring like a living thing. It forced the warriors apart, each flying to get out of the way. Only when Methos was sure that there was no way for them to reach each other through the roaring flames did he trigger the fire alarm. When he returned to the floor, he saw the Kronos and MacLeod staring at each other across the inferno. Kronos raised his sword to MacLeod in a mock-salute. “I can wait,” he shouted.

Methos smiled a frightening, satisfied smile. So could he.

***

It was two hours later. Methos and Kronos had abandoned the heat and swarming crowds of the power station’s fire for the lonely privacy of the Seacouver waterfront, but neither man had stopped to change his clothes. Methos could still smell the gasoline that had soaked into his coat sleeve, the musky smoke clinging Kronos’s jacket. Kronos seemed to smell it, too. His nose wrinkled as he stared down at Methos’s face. The hand that held his sword to Methos’s throat clenched slightly. “Why did you stop the fight?” Kronos demanded. “You saved MacLeod.”

“It could have gone either way.” Methos’s voice was melodic, seductive. Above him, Kronos frowned slightly in confusion. “I couldn’t take the chance.”

“No?” Kronos’s eyes narrowed. He slid the blade more firmly into the hollow between Methos’s neck and shoulder. “Tell me. Were you afraid of me losing? Or *him*?”

Methos only smiled mysteriously. He stretched his neck out to rub against the sharp steel, completely fearless. Kronos watched him, confusion deepening. “Have I been wrong about you?” he asked, and gave Methos a sharp prod with the sword that should have made him jump. It didn’t. “Maybe I should kill you right now and be absolutely certain.”

“You could. But if you do, you’ll never have the Four Horseman together again.”

It worked, just as Methos had known it would. He had to work hard to contain his glee as he saw the shock cross Kronos’s face. “What are you saying?”

“Silas and Caspian are alive.”

“You’re lying,” Kronos breathed, but it was a feeble protest. Already Methos could see the possibilities dancing in Kronos’s eyes, a vision of the old family united. Time to give him the final prod. “I can take you to them,” Methos said, and left the rest of his conditions unspoken. *Yes, Kronos, you can have the Horseman back. The power, the brotherhood, it can all be yours once again…but only if you spare my head. And only if you trust me, put yourself into my hands as fully as you have forced me to put myself in yours. We will be partners again, Kronos, and I will make us four…but first you must let me take you from this place. Far away from Seacouver, far away from Joe. Only then will you have everything you desire.* 

*And only then will I be able to make things play out as*I* desire, too.*

Kronos lowered his sword. “Then you live,” he said exultantly. “The Four Horseman will ride again.” And he walked away, head no doubt filled with the bloody glories of their past.

Methos straightened his collar and followed Kronos into the night.

***

 

**_~Someplace in the air between Russia and Romania, Early February, 1997~_ **  
**_~Two Weeks Later~_ **

 

Kronos was not an easy flier. Methos, half reading the Russian best-seller he’d picked up at the airport, and half watching Kronos vibrate impatiently in his seat across the airplane’s aisle, reflected that it wasn’t because Kronos was afraid. Kronos *had* no fear. If it wasn’t for the undeniable fact that a crash would have seriously delayed their goal, Kronos might very well have blown up the plane’s engines himself, just for the fun of listening to the other passenger’s screams as they went down. But just because Kronos wasn’t afraid of airplanes didn’t mean that he enjoyed them. Being forced to sit in one place without doing anything for hours was anathema to a personality as dominant as Kronos’s, and it showed. Already he’d terrified one stewardess into fleeing the first class cabin, and the second was doing her best to avoid their seats. It was too bad, really. Methos had really been looking forward to a drink.

On the far side of the cabin, Silas’s loud booming laughter suddenly rang out. Methos quickly hid his smile. Unlike Kronos, Methos had expected Silas to be afraid of flying. After all, Silas had been alone in his forest for so long that he’d thought airplanes were simply strangely shaped, high-flying birds until today. But he’d followed Kronos and Methos onto the plane with the same quiet, simple minded trust with which he’d always followed them everywhere, and he now seemed to be having a very good time. The young woman he’d sat next to had initially been very intimidated by Silas’s earth-shaking voice and looming size. But eventually she’d gotten up the courage to ask him where he was from, and it turned out she was from a farm only a few hundred miles away. The two were now deeply ensconced in a conversation about horse breeding, much to Methos’s amusement and Kronos’s consternation. “Listen to him. Chattering away like a peasant,” Kronos said now, leaning across the aisle and speaking to Methos with disdain. “You’d think he’d have been glad to leave all that behind with the manure.”

“Well, veterinary science *has* come a long way in the last few centuries,” Methos answered mildly, turning a page in his book. “He’s probably learning a lot.”

“He’ll have no need. Shortly, all he’ll need to know is how to destroy,” Kronos said severely, shooting Silas a disgusted look. Then, with one of the lightning switches of mood Methos was once again becoming accustomed to, Kronos changed the subject, draping himself over his armrest with an excited gleam in his eyes. “What a journey we’ve had, my brother. From Seacouver to Calgary, Calgary to Bordeaux, Bordeaux to Moscow…then three days on horseback to retrieve our brother Silas. There were times I thought I’d never see the end of it. But now…just think, Methos. One more hour, and we’ll be on the ground in Romania. A few more hours by car to collect Caspian, and once again we will be four. Can you imagine?”

“My heart thrills,” Methos answered with a remarkable simulation of sincerity, and Kronos flopped back into his seat, well-satisfied. Methos hid his sigh and turned another page. Kronos was right. It had been quite a journey. Two weeks of plotting and planning and careful flattery, two weeks of playing Kronos’s loyal brother so perfectly Kronos had never once suspected he had another agenda in mind. Methos had done things in these last few weeks that had made him shudder, things he’d once hoped he’d never have to do again. But it was almost over now. Almost…

Surreptitiously, Methos reached down to rest his hand on his blue-jeans covered thigh. He could feel the matchbook he had in his pocket through the denim, the one he’d picked up in Bordeaux. He’d already done much of the groundwork necessary to set his plans in motion while in Russia. All he had to do now was drop this final clue, and the stage would be well and truly set. 

And then the end could come as it would. 

***

Joe’s phone rang just after noon, Seacouver time. “It’s me, Joe,” Duncan said. “I have news. They’re going to be in Bordeaux.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Cassandra and I reached the asylum where Caspian was held this morning.”

“You found Caspian?” Joe felt a small tug of hope. “Thank god. If Caspian’s still imprisoned, maybe we were wrong. Maybe Methos and Kronos aren’t planning to put the Horseman back together, after all.”

“They’re already back together, Joe,” Duncan answered grimly. “We were too late. When we got to the asylum, Caspian was long gone. So were the three men who had come to see him.” His voice got very cold. “And a doctor had been strangled bare-handed.”

“No. Oh, no.” Joe closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for whatever innocent soul had gotten wrapped up in this, then opened them and frowned. “Wait a minute. If they were all long gone, then how do you know…”

“I found a matchbook on the floor of Caspian’s cell. It was from the Hotel de Seze. In Bordeaux.”

“But—” 

Joe was silent for a moment. There was no way on earth that the Methos he knew would be so sloppy as to leave such incriminating evidence behind by accident, or allow any of his companions to do the same. That meant the matchbook had been left on purpose. But why? “Mac,” Joe said, unwilling to say it aloud, but forced to. “Be careful. It could be a trap.”

“I know, Joe. And even if I didn’t, rest assured that Cassandra has told me the very same thing. Over and over again,” Duncan answered with just a hint of wry humor. Joe smiled tightly, knowing just exactly what he meant. The Highlander’s voice sobered. “It doesn’t matter, Joe. Even if it is a trap, I have to find him. Have to talk to him. Have to find out…” Duncan trailed off, and when he spoke again he sounded tired. “Look. Cassandra and I can’t get a flight out of Romania until late tomorrow, so we’re going to spend the night here. But I’ll call you the moment we’re settled in Bordeaux. All right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you do that,” Joe answered. “Watch yourself, my friend.”

“I will.

Joe hung up the phone. He didn’t understand any of this. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. In his heart, he still believed that there had to be a logical explanation for Methos’s behavior…some way to prove that the old Immortal really was innocent, and had somehow been coerced into leaving the country at Kronos’s side. He frowned, remembering how he’d tried to convince Cassandra of that, the day after the fire at the power station. “After all, he could have killed you,” he’d said, when Cassandra had laughed mercilessly at what she termed Joe’s ‘mortal naiveté’. “He could have taken your head, when he had you on top of the dam. But he didn’t.”

“No. He just knocked me unconscious and dropped me into the river,” Cassandra had retorted tartly. “Does that seem like the behavior of a saint to you, Mr. Dawson?”

“No,” Joe had admitted. “Not exactly. But it did get you out of the line of fire, didn’t it? Away from Kronos…”

“Methos just didn’t want Duncan to take his head while he was recovering from my Quickening,” Cassandra had snapped, and Joe had to admit there was some sense in that. With two other Immortals nearby, it *would* have been a very bad time to take Cassandra’s head, especially if Methos had fallen ill the same way he had after killing Kristin. But Joe just couldn’t make himself believe that Methos had wanted to kill Cassandra at all. Joe had zoomed in with his binoculars when Methos first appeared atop the dam with Cassandra in his arms, and he’d seen Methos’s expression clearly—seen the weariness, seen the despair. There was no malice, there. Not even a hint of anger, until Cassandra had said whatever it was she’d said just before Methos dropped her over the edge. And why drop her at all, if what Methos really wanted was to kill her permanently? Why not just tie her up somewhere and come back for her at a more convenient time? No. There had to a good reason for Methos’s actions hiding in this mess somewhere. Something that would clear Methos’s name once and for all, and let him come home…

But then the Watcher reports had started coming in, and suddenly Joe didn’t know what to think. HQ had agreed with Joe’s decision that Kronos was too dangerous to Watch, so there were no formal field agents on his and Methos’s tail. But a Watcher APB had been put out anyway, just in case somebody glimpsed Kronos during the course of his other duties, and several sharp-eyed Canadian Watchers had found suspicious items in their local news. Just a few days after Kronos’s and Methos’s disappearance, a small grocery store near the US border that had been violently robbed. Later that same night, a men’s clothing shop a few towns away had suffered a similar fate. And two days after that, a travel agent in Calgary had been brutally assaulted by one man while another accessed the airline’s reservations database through her computer. Each time, the survivors submitted a description that sounded a hell of a lot like Kronos to the Watcher who spotted the story. And while none of the other Watchers had yet put two and two together, each time Kronos was described as having a companion who sounded a lot like Adam Pierson to Joe. 

The graphic nature of the travel agent’s ordeal had shaken Joe badly. Could Cassandra could be right? Could Methos really have reverted into being the violent killer they all knew he’d once been? Joe had started to doubt…which was why, when Duncan and Cassandra returned to the bar a few days later and Duncan had quietly said, “I know you’re hiding something, Joe. Tell me what it is,” Joe had silently pushed a Watcher report across his desk. Duncan had taken it and frowned. “Who is Sergi Romanof?”

“One of our agents in Russia,” Joe answered. “He and his family have been watching the same Immortal since the time of Peter the Great. The job just kept getting handed down from father to son.”

“’Silas, the Gentle Giant of the Steppes’,” Duncan read aloud, and Cassandra had gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Cassandra, didn’t you say…”

“Yes. Silas was one of the Four Horseman,” Cassandra answered. “He’s still alive? Can it be?”

“It sounds like it,” Duncan had answered in turn. “Listen to this: ‘I had long ago given up on my post as ever being anything more than a sinecure. Silas the Giant has kept to himself for centuries after all, only rarely venturing off his farm to sell horses and trade for goods. He has never so much as spoken to another Immortal for as long as my family has kept his Chronicle. But yesterday, I received word that two strangers had ridden in across the Steppes to visit his holdings, and so I went to his cabin to discover who they were. I hid behind the stable and used my binoculars to look in through Silas’s cabin window, where I saw a man with a scarred face warming his hands at Silas’s fire. Then someone—I am assuming it was the second stranger—came up behind me and clamped a rag smelling of chloroform to my face. I passed out.

“‘By the time I came to, both Silas and his visitors were gone. The house had been abandoned and the barns and stable were empty. I later learned that Silas’s beloved horses had been distributed anonymously amongst the neighboring farms, left neatly tied where the farm families were sure to find them. It seems that wherever Silas went, he does not mean to return. As for me, I have completely recovered, although I must say I am very confused. I never saw Silas’s second visitor. I have no idea who he was, or why he chose to leave me alive. But there is no question in my mind that the man sitting at the fire was Kronos.’ ”

“We know what they’re doing, now,” Cassandra had exclaimed, wide eyed. “They’re reuniting the Horsemen. They’ll go after Caspian next. We have to stop them.” And so Joe had been forced to go through the Chronicles to find the foursome’s final member, a true loony now known by the name of Evan Caspari, currently sentenced to life imprisonment in a Romanian insane asylum. MacLeod and Cassandra had taken off for Romania at once, and now…

And now Caspian was free, and yet another life had been taken in the process. Joe had to admit that the likelihood of Methos being a guiltless bystander in all this was getting smaller by the day. But if Methos really was the stone-cold killer Cassandra believed him to be, why had he used chloroform on Sergi Romanof at all? Why not just slit his throat before he could file a report? And why leave the matchbook for MacLeod to find? Joe couldn’t shake the feeling that Methos was playing some kind of game, moves as carefully orchestrated as a chess match. The only question was what his goal really was.

Joe frowned thunderously, hesitated…and then made his decision. It was a stupid decision, he knew that. He was a mortal, a disabled, rapidly aging mortal at that, not a warrior like MacLeod. His odds of surviving a trap were much, much too small. Nevertheless, there was only one decision he could make. Like MacLeod, he just had to know. Joe picked up the phone and dialed. “Hey, Mabeline,” he said, when he heard the cheerful agent at the United counter speak. “This is Joe Dawson…yeah, that’s right, I’ve got to make another emergency trip to France. No, not Paris this time. Bordeaux. When’s the soonest you can get me in the air? Three hours? That sounds great…no, of course I don’t mind a short layover in Boston. Thanks, Mabel, you’re a peach.” 

He hung up and went to pack.

***

It had been a while, since Joe had tried to do any serious detective work without the Watcher resources behind him. But the principles were still the same. With a bit of creativity and a well-practiced note of sincerity in your voice, you could get anybody to tell you anything. Joe arrived in Bordeaux, booked into a small motor inn considerably less luxurious than the Hotel De Seze, and started working the phones, calling every hotel and hostel in the area. When half a day had gone by and he’d failed to discover anyone answering to either Kronos’s or Methos’s description, he changed his tactics. Posing as an American reporter doing a story on exotic millionaire homes, he started asking estate agents if anyone had spent a lot of money on isolated property during the last few years. Joe knew he’d hit pay dirt when one particularly chatty agent told him about the wealthy eccentric who’d purchased an old military submarine base through her office. Apparently the new owner, who possessed a notable facial scar, kept entirely to himself, except when he accepted large deliveries of monkeys that were never seen again. Joe shivered, but thanked her very politely and hung up. Now, at least, he knew where to go.

His courage almost failed him when the cab let him out. “Forbidding” was not the right phrase for the old submarine base. “Downright terrifying” was, especially to a Watcher who had visited dozens of Immortal crime scenes. The huge enclosed space, thick cement walls, and remote location could have been tailor made for slaughtering Immortals; a hundred heads could have been taken there without anybody being the wiser. Not to mention the fact that Kronos had augmented the military’s already-intimidating razor-wire fence with one very scary iron gate, a solid sheet of black metal liberally decorated with skulls and spikes. A small circular door bell button gleamed from the middle, quietly daring anyone to press it. Joe limped up to it slowly. Orpheus, on his way to rescue Eurydice, could not have viewed the gates of Hades with any more trepidation. But he’d made his decision. Whatever the risks were, he’d come too far to come back. Joe braced himself against his cane and reached out to ring the bell.

Instead of the ominous booming chime Joe had expected, the bell gave a perfectly ordinary little ring, causing Joe an intense desire to laugh. The cheerful, tinny sound just seemed so out of place. But any urge for hilarity died in Joe’s throat when the gate slowly swung back…and Joe suddenly found himself face to face with an extremely shiny axe. Joe gulped. His eyes traveled from the axe to the tree trunk-like arm that held it, up the arm to shoulders and a neck that wouldn’t have been out of place on a bull, and finally to the surprisingly gentle eyes of the man to whom it all belonged. Silas… 

Joe recognized him at once, although the picture in his Chronicle hadn’t done him justice. Even reading the details of the Immortal’s stunning height hadn’t prepared Joe for the sheer size of the man. They stared at each other for a long moment, Joe rooted in place, Silas towering over him like a clichéd fairytale giant. And then Joe heard a mocking male voice, the speaker hidden by Silas’s bulk. “Well, well!” it said. “It appears our lunch has arrived early today, and with a bonus, no less. It’s about time that grocery store sent out a delivery boy greedy enough to wait for a tip, hmmm? Usually they just ring the bell and run. Quite the delightful surprise, is it not, Caspian?”

“It is,” said another hidden speaker. This one’s voice was higher pitched, with something indefinably rodent-like about it. “You know how long I’ve been craving fresh meat.” 

“Well, it seems your cravings will be satisfied, my brother. Not that I can guarantee how tender this particular meat will be,” replied the first. “It looks a bit too well aged for my tastes. But to each his own. I hope you enjoy. Just don’t tell Methos. You know how he feels about us snacking on the locals.” The voice lowered, became more menacing. “Well, don’t stand on ceremony, Silas. Bring him in. We’ll have some fine entertainment before our meal.”

The axe moved aside, and a second humungous hand closed over Joe’s shoulder, hauling him through the gate. Joe looked around himself apprehensively. He was now standing in a small courtyard outside what appeared to be the base’s main entrance. Torches flickered against two high cement arches in front of him, showing the way inside. And standing in front of the arches were two leather-clad men. One had some truly frightening tattoos covering his face, and eyed Joe’s body in a way that was unpleasant, to say the least. Nevertheless, it was the sight of the second man, lounging casually against an arch with a half-nibbled apple in his hand, that almost caused Joe to wet his pants. Kronos. Oh, god. Kronos. “I hate to disappoint you,” Joe said, fighting hard to hang onto his courage. “But I’m not the delivery boy.”

“No?”

“No. I’m here to see Adam.”

Kronos’s reaction to this was fascinating to behold. His expression of menacing good humor didn’t falter at all. But he stopped nibbling, and he straightened, regarding Joe with a calculating eye. “Really,” he said. “That’s very interesting. What is your name, my limping friend?”

“I’m Joe. Joe Dawson.”

“And just what makes you think that you’ll find anyone called Adam here?” Kronos gave an elegant shrug. “If it’s Adam Pierson you’re looking for, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. The rumor is he’s dead. Killed by some madman back in the States.”

“Yeah, well, rumors can be wrong,” Joe answered. “As I think you very well know.”

Kronos arched an eyebrow, and nodded at Silas. Instantly Joe felt his arms being roughly grasped from behind. He struggled, but Silas held him as easily as another man might hold a toddler. “Look, I’m not here to make trouble,” Joe said desperately. “I just…I really want to see Adam. We’re…” He groped for a word. “We’re old friends.”

“I see,” said Kronos, and for a moment Joe was sure that his life was over. But then Kronos smiled brilliantly. “Well. You know what they say. Any friend of Adam’s…” And he nodded again at Silas, who released Joe’s arms and grabbed him by the collar instead. “Come, Silas, Caspian. Let’s make this ‘friend’ of our dear brother feel at home.”

Which was how Joe Dawson entered the Horsemen’s lair, Silas carrying him by the back of his shirt the same way a mother cat would carry a kitten. He was taken down a long cement-floored hallway that seemed to stretch for miles before it finally terminated in an echoing cavern of a room, a room lit only by the huge fire burning in a raised pit near its center. It took Joe’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he stared outright. “Jesus Christ,” he said, unable to restrain himself. “What the hell *is* this place?”

Kronos smiled. He waved a hand at Silas, who sat Joe on his feet in the middle of the room and faded into the shadows with Caspian. Kronos climbed into a tall chair, a gothic monstrosity so large and ornate it could only be called a throne. “Your friend ‘Adam’ has christened it Camelot,” he said.

“Really,” Joe answered weakly. Well, there certainly were the guttering torches on the walls, all right. Not to mention the throne and a large round table, although, like the entry gate, all the furniture seemed to have more spikes than was strictly necessary. The place wasn’t so much medieval as a modern punk interpretation thereof—and if Methos had been the one to name it Camelot, Joe could easily detect his former lover’s trademark sarcasm at work. “Funny,” Joe said, working hard to ignore the cold trickle of sweat running down his neck. “You don’t really look like King Arthur.”

“No?” Kronos reached behind him and, with typically casual Immortal skill, produced a sword. Joe took an involuntary step back. “That’s strange. I seem to have the right accessory.” 

Joe gulped. Even after years of Watching MacLeod, he’d never quite gotten used to the sight of blade appearing more or less out of thin air. Seeing Kronos pull off the trick, when he was wearing a short leather jacket that couldn’t possibly have hidden the sword’s bulk, was chilling in the extreme. “That’s quite a sword,” Joe said, striving to remain casual. “Did you pull it out of a rock?”

“Not precisely. I did pull it out of a Mongol warrior’s skull, though, right after I dealt with the Turk who had put it there. It *almost* qualifies.” Kronos polished the blade casually against his sleeve. The torchlight gleamed off the spikes near its base. “Your ‘Adam’ doesn’t approve of it, I’m afraid—he thinks it’s too showy. But I believe in the power of advertising.”

“Advertising?” 

“Oh, yes. See these?” Kronos touched the sword’s spikes lovingly. “When a man who knows weapons sees these, he starts thinking about how easy it would be to get his own sword caught between the spikes and the blade—and then he thinks about what it would be like to have his hand trapped and mangled by the sharp edges. I *like* to make men think such thoughts, friend Joe. They do half the work of the battle for me before a single blow is struck. And it’s so stimulating, seeing the fear in my opponent’s eyes.” Kronos gave the sword a fond look and set it aside. “Adam, now—he’s much more in favor of subtlety. Witness his own weapon…you have seen it, haven’t you?”

The question was a trap. Kronos was trying to figure out exactly how much Joe really knew. Joe took a breath, carefully considering what playing ignorant would get him…then decided to walk right in. “The Ivanhoe?” he said, and tried to ignore the bittersweet memory that rose up at the admission. *There’s something I’d like to show you, Joe…I don’t want to hide anymore…* “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve seen it.” 

“I thought you might have.” Kronos gave Joe a calculating look, then lounged back casually in his spiky throne. It wasn’t quite Methos’s sprawl, but it was close enough to give Joe the willies. Had Kronos picked it up from Methos? Or was it the other way around? “Well then, you know exactly what I mean,” Kronos continued conversationally. “The Ivanhoe is so slender, so easy to hide. And whenever Adam does bother to take it out to play it’s such a pretty thing, what with the golden lions and the emeralds. Anyone who saw him with it would think he stole it from some fop of a nobleman who only wanted a pretty ornament for his belt. Perhaps he did. It’s a recent addition; I wasn’t with him when he picked it up. If I had been, I would have advised him to go with something more…weighty.” For a moment Kronos looked very sad, and Joe silently marveled: first at the fact that Kronos could regard a sword Methos had carried for at least four hundred years as a “recent addition”, and secondly at the sorrow. Could Kronos really be capable of regretting that Methos had picked out a new sword without his advice, much the same way Joe had regretted the teenage Lynn purchasing her first car without asking him to test drive it? “The thing is,” Kronos went on, continuing to watch Joe closely, “no matter how innocent it looks, one has to remember what that sword really is—a weapon designed for killing. Adam likes to camouflage that fact. But it’s always there, nonetheless.”

And there it was. The gauntlet thrown down…the question, unspoken, but hanging in the air nonetheless. Who are you, Joe Dawson? How much do you really know? “I know exactly how deadly Adam can be,” Joe answered quietly.

“Do you, now?” The dark eyes glittered. “And just how would you know that, friend Joe?”

“He helped me kill my brother-in-law.”

“Really?” Whatever Kronos had been expecting, this clearly wasn’t it. He looked startled, then fascinated. “How…interesting. I didn’t think my dear brother had gotten his hands dirty at all in recent years. Tell me, why did he do that?”

“Because it needed to be done.”

“And why did it need to be done?”

“Because Horton was family. And he betrayed me.” Kronos made a small “ah” sound, nodding to himself as if this made perfect sense. Joe dared to take a small step forward. “So you see, I understand about family,” he said. “I understand how deep those bonds can go, how strong loyalties have to be. And…Adam’s my family now, too.”

“Really.” Kronos gazed at Joe with new respect. “I shall have to consider that.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with interest. “Tell me, just what *has* my beloved brother been up to for the last few decades? How did you two meet?”

“Umm…actually, I won him in a poker game.”

“No. Really?” Kronos let out a short bark of laughter. “That’s priceless! Did he ever tell you that I once did almost that very same thing?”

“You did?”

“I did indeed! He’d gotten himself enslaved to…oh, I don’t even remember the man’s name anymore; some petty little patriarch of a tiny desert tribe. We weren’t playing poker, of course. It was a dice game you wouldn’t have heard of—they made the dice out of bones in those days. And, naturally, I cheated.” The feral smile gleamed. “My first act after winning him was to give him a sword and help him butcher the entire clan. I offered him first crack at the patriarch’s heart, but he turned it down.” A careless shrug. “Adam always was a fussy eater.”

“Really.” Joe didn’t know what to say to this. “I just fed him pizza and had him catalog my books.”

Kronos waved a hand nonchalantly in the air. “Oh, well, times *have* changed since then,” he said. “So. What else has my brother been up to, these last few decades? You must tell me all the details. From the moment you first met.”

And so Joe, lost in a cyberpunk nightmare of a castle, surround by three insane Immortals who would as soon eat his heart as look at him, did what he was told—starting at the beginning, with the poker game that led Don to throw his grad student into the pot, and his and Adam’s first meeting at Juniper Street Books. Joe left out every hint of their love affair—something told him that admitting he’d ever dared to touch Methos carnally would get him killed at once. But he threw in every other detail he could remember, embellishing and drawing out the story like Scheherazade—and for much the same reasons. Kronos listened with rapt attention. He laughed aloud when Joe narrated Adam’s city-wide quest for a truly great local microbrew, listened thoughtfully when Joe described the care Adam had taken in restoring the bindings and covers of some of their more battered finds, and actually looked wistful when Joe told him about their months-long pilgrimage to all of Seacouver’s best musical centers. By the time Joe had gotten to a highly edited version of their reunion in Paris, Horton’s betrayal and Adam’s role in bringing him to justice, Joe had discovered a frightening truth. Kronos loved Methos. It might not be what Joe thought of as love, exactly, but it was there and it was real—a craving that glittered in the other Immortal’s eyes, a need that spoke of generations of loneliness and hunger. “Well,” Kronos said, after nearly three hours had passed. “I must thank you, friend Joe. It seems my dear brother has not led quite as boring a life these last few years as I had originally feared. Still…” Kronos shrugged his shoulders, as if mentally dismissing a puzzle that would he would come back to work on later, then returned his gaze to Joe. “I have only one more question for you. You seem to know him well. Have these years been barren of love?” 

There was a mad twinkle in the dark eyes as Kronos asked the question that scared Joe more than anything else he’d seen so far. He thought hard…then nodded. “There was a woman,” he said. “Alexa. He met her in my bar, took her to Europe. She died of cancer…”

“A woman? Bah,” Kronos said contemptuously. “Women are disposable to warriors like us, friend Joe. You should know that. No.” Kronos shook his head. “I was speaking of *true* love—the love that exists between shield mates, brothers of the sword. Has he taken any men to his bed? What about…” The mad glint intensified. “What about Duncan MacLeod?”

There was something in the question that made Joe suspect that if he got the answer wrong, his next breath would be drawn in blood-soaked agony—and then, very shortly, he would never breath again. For a second, Joe actually considered telling the truth. Then, with a flash of shame, he knew he could not. It didn’t matter if Kronos saw the lie and condemned him to death for it. He could not betray Methos or Duncan in that way. “They’re friends,” Joe said quietly. “Adam enjoys playing head games with him, beating him at chess, that sort of thing. I’ve heard him call Mac “That Highland Child” contemptuously more than once. I don’t think he’s anyone Adam can’t live without.”

“Hmmm.” Kronos looked pensive. Joe closed his eyes, sure he’d gone too far, told too many lies to live. Much to his surprise, the next thing he felt was a friendly clap on his shoulder. “Well. Thank you, friend Joe. It has been a most enlightening afternoon. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve decided to let you live long enough to see your Adam at least one more time; who knows, depending on the way things go this evening, I might keep you around considerably longer than that. Every court needs a jester, after all. You seem admirably suited to the task.” Kronos nodded at Silas, who suddenly loomed up out of the shadows along with Caspian as if they’d been there all along. “Silas, Caspian, take our new friend down to the dungeons. Put him in the second cage.”

The dungeon. Joe’s shoulder was grabbed, firmly but compassionately by Silas, harshly by the maniacally grinning Caspian. Joe fought desperately to shake them off, but it was no use. He was as helpless as a butterfly pinned to cork. “If you’re King Arthur, who are these two?” he demanded as they began to haul him away.

Kronos blinked, startled by the question. “Why, Silas there—“ he nodded at the hauling Immortal—“is my Gawain. My strong right arm, trustworthy in every way. Besides.” Kronos looked amused. “It was Gawain who cut off the head of the Green Night with his ax. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

“And him?”

A grin. “Caspian is my Mordred,” Kronos answered. “Treacherous and cunning, sowing seeds of discontent among my knights, ready to betray me at every turn. Fortunately for him, this King isn’t quite ready to be toppled. Eh, Caspian?”

Caspian said nothing, but Joe was startled to see that he grinned back, apparently well-pleased by the comparison. “And Adam?”

“Ah.” For the first time, Kronos seemed preoccupied. “By rights, he should be my Lancelot. The most noble knight in the land, favored by his king above all others…and the reason the entire kingdom came crashing down.” The scarred Immortal looked pensive. “Betrayed his king for the sake of a women, how very tawdry and sad. Let us hope that our Adam has more sense.”

Joe frowned. “I don’t see a Guinevere.”

“Oh, she’ll be arriving shortly, never fear. I don’t think I’ll let you share a cell with her when she does, though. It wouldn’t do for my future jester’s loyalty to be swayed by a damsel in distress.” Kronos’s face hardened. “Enough literary parallels. Take him away.”

And Joe was bundled out of the room.

***

*“I came to warn you. The first step towards Kronos’s brave new world will happen tonight.”*

*“Where? When?”*

*“In a fountain at La Place De Quinconces.”*

*“You set a *bomb*?”*

*“Do you know anything about Ebola, MacLeod? Well, there are worse things in the world, if you look. And Kronos looked. He’s bred a virus. No cure, very exotic. He’s got cages of monkeys that he’s been testing it on. He’s got enough to destroy half of Europe. Now, a little bit in a fountain will only kill a few. But it’s a start.”*

*“The water supply is next?”*

*“Bright boy.”*

*“Let’s go.”*

*“Oh no, no, no. If I go up against him, I lose. As you very well know.”*

*“What are you planning to do, then? Go with the winner?” Methos didn’t answer. MacLeod’s voice took on an aura of extreme desperation. “ So why are you here, Methos? What kind of game are you playing?”*

*What kind of game are you playing?*

The words echoed over and over in Methos’s head as he drove away from Duncan and the Elysium Church in Bordeaux, on his way back to New Camelot and all the insanity that awaited him within its walls. Well. That little meeting had not gone well at all, had it? Or maybe Methos was being too hard on himself. After all, meetings between ex-lovers were not generally reckoned to be comfortable things. And considering that the last time he and the Highlander had crossed paths, Methos had knocked Duncan’s new girlfriend unconscious, dropped her off a dam, and then almost lit the man himself on fire, Methos supposed he should be grateful that the meeting hadn’t ended in bloodshed. 

Of course, that’s why he’d asked Duncan to meet on holy ground…

*What kind of game are you playing, Methos?*

Methos smiled bitterly. Duncan had been so sure that Methos had orchestrated everything that had happened since they’d left the States, that the “game”, as he called it, was entirely within Methos’s control. And once upon a time, it had been. Getting Kronos out of Seacouver, chloroforming Silas’s Watcher after he’d had a good long look at Kronos’ face, dropping a matchbook in an asylum cell—it had all gone exactly according to Methos’s plan. One by one, Methos had scattered his breadcrumbs, the bait that would lead MacLeod to Bordeaux. And like every other good fairy tale hero in history, Duncan had followed. The stage had been set, the actors were in their places. All Methos had left to do was to raise the curtain, and the final act he’d planned would come to pass.

But then Kronos, damn his sneaky, sadistic heart, had gleefully shown off the little vial he’d hidden deep inside New Camelot’s secret lab, and everything had changed. Of all the things Methos had ever expected his mad brother to do, breeding a super virus had not been one of them. Kronos’s decision to start releasing the contagion right away had ruined everything--all of Methos’s strategy, the careful timing, the skillful plans. There was no way Methos could allow Kronos release the virus, write the Horsemen’s name in blood across the world a final time. But he couldn’t resist Kronos openly, either. If he did, he would lose his coveted place as the unseen puppet master of events, give up any influence he still had. So, Methos had done what he’d hoped never to do again. He’d made a phone call to MacLeod. He’d arranged a meeting on holy ground. And then he’d submitted to Mac’s interrogation, given with all the forcefulness of a medieval priest examining a suspected witch:

*“Why did you lie to me?”*

*“About what?”*

*“About Cassandra. About who you were.”*

*“I have been many things, MacLeod.”*

*“And who are you now?”*

Such a good question. Methos had ached with the need to give an honest answer--but he couldn’t. Not without giving everything away. So he’d fallen back on evasions, not talking about who he was now, but discussing what he’d been instead…and the distraction had worked. *“Why do you think I didn’t tell you? What I’ve done, you can’t forgive. It’s not in your nature. Will you accept it?”*

*“Accept what? That a friend I trusted with my life slaughtered innocent people for what, a few head of cattle? What are you going to tell me, Methos, that’s how the world was?”*

*“No. The world was how we made it.”*

*“No, the world was how you CHOSE to make it! Just like you chose to slaughter Cassandra’s people, and burn her village...”*

*“And I chose to take her prisoner.”*

*“And?”*

*“There’s more.”*

Alone in his car, Methos grimaced at the memory. No, Duncan hadn’t liked *that* story one bit, about how Methos broken and twisted Cassandra into a slave who’d served him willingly. Which was, of course, exactly what Methos had intended. He needed Duncan angry, angry enough to carry out the finale Methos intended. But it had still hurt, seeing the Highlander’s disgust. Methos supposed that there was still some idiotic part of him that had hoped Duncan would reward his honesty with understanding, perhaps even a measure of forgiveness. Well, so much for that idea. MacLeod was what he was; Methos had made a great deal of his plans counting on that very fact. And at least he’d managed to warn Duncan about Kronos’s bomb. The odds were very good that Duncan would arrive in time to stop it going off. If not, Methos had done his honest best to ameliorate the damage with his whole “start small and build” plan, limiting the numbers of people this first round of Kronos’s viral terrorism would kill. If there was a second round…if Duncan didn’t pick up on his little clue about the monkeys and arrive at the submarine station in time to stop it…well, the world would change again, that was all. And humanity would adapt. Somehow. 

Shame, really, that Methos wouldn’t be around to see it.

Methos checked his watch as he walked through New Camelot’s imposing entry gate. It was a short drive from the submarine base to the church; only ten minutes had passed since he’d given MacLeod his warning. Fourteen minutes remained until he’d know whether Duncan had succeeded or failed. Methos had half expected to find Kronos in front of the big-screen television in the Great Hall, glued to the satellite news as the minutes counted down. But no. Kronos was in the submarine base’s cavernous military kitchen instead, rummaging through the contents of the refrigerator with a decidedly disgruntled air. “Oh, it’s you,” Kronos said, looking up as Methos’s Buzz washed over him. “It will have to be leftover chicken again for dinner, I’m afraid. The grocery store never sent a delivery boy today at all. I think they’re finally starting to learn.”

*Yet another reason why I can’t let this situation continue,* Methos thought. *Dozens of lives hang in the balance, a new era of terror is about to be launched, and what does Kronos care about? The grocery order. And we can’t even discuss a simple housekeeping matter like that without it all revolving around murder and mayhem somehow.* “I’ll see to it.” 

“Do that, brother.” Kronos emerged from the huge industrial refrigerator with a plate of cold fried chicken in his hands. “It’s been a disappointing day all around. First the plumbing in the east wing backed up, and now this problem with the groceries.” Kronos bit into a wing. “Hmmm. Not bad. It will do, I suppose. At least until you can intimidate the peasants into resuming our deliveries.” 

“I’ll visit them at once.”

“Thank you, brother. I knew I could count on you.” Kronos started to wander out, chicken in hand. At the doorway, he turned back. “Oh,” he said, clearly by way of an afterthought. “And you might want to visit the dungeons before you take off again. A friend of yours dropped by this afternoon. I had Silas and Caspian put him in one of the cells.”

Methos’s heart froze in mid-beat. “Friend?” he repeated.

“Well, that’s what he *said* he was,” Kronos answered jovially. “If he was lying, I really can’t imagine that he poses that much of a threat.” He munched on the chicken wing thoughtfully. “Amusing fellow. Mortal, with a limp. You would have thought that the sight of Silas with his axe might have discouraged him, but no. He just stood his ground and calmly asked to speak to Adam.” Kronos raised an eyebrow, regarding Methos curiously. “You do appear to have made some interesting allies over the last few decades, my brother.”

*Joe.* The anguished sound of the world cracking apart was contained in that one thought. *Joe. Here, in Camelot. Oh, my god…* “What is he doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He wants to see you, my charming brother.” Kronos shrugged. “We talked for quite a while. It seems that you two share quite the history.”

“History?” Methos practically squeaked the word. If Kronos knew that he and Joe had been lovers…if he knew what Joe meant to him still…

“He said you two were family.” Kronos saw Methos’s panicked face and misinterpreted. “Now, now, don’t look like that. Do you really think I care if you got involved in some petty mortal squabble, helped kill the man’s brother-in-law? I must say, whatever else your motivations were, you certainly managed to cement his loyalty. He never quite admitted to me that he knew you were Immortal, although it was fairly obvious that he did. Part of me is surprised that you allowed him to witness quite so much, my brother. But then, you always did like to have your pets, didn’t you?” Kronos gave a careless shrug. “Go on then. Go to the dungeons, say your goodbyes. Then I suggest you set him free, lest I be forced to put him down for you. After all, you will soon be too busy for pets of any kind.”

There was little Methos could say to that, so he said nothing. He just nodded and left the room.

The lower levels of Kronos’s submarine base had many rooms that could be used for keeping prisoners. Once Methos was out of Kronos’s sight he broke into a run, haunted by the idea that Kronos might have put Joe in the one that was partially underwater. He kept imagining Joe tripping and falling into the swill, unable to right himself on the wet, slippery floor. But his fears proved to be unfounded. Kronos had elected to keep Joe on dry land, in what had once been a storage room for rations, several flights below the kitchen. Kronos had installed a series of iron bars across the back half of the room, forming a roomy prison cell. As Methos skidded to stop inside, he was startled to see that the key to the door was hanging in plain sight beside the bars, easily within reach of any prisoner. Joe could have left at any time. What was he still doing there, then? Why hadn’t he run the moment he had the chance? But then Methos got close enough to actually look through the bars, and he caught his first real glimpse of Joe. And all questions abruptly left his mind.

Three months. It had been three months since Methos had last seen Joe through the windows of MacLeod’s loft, three months since he’d accepted the fact that he’d never see Joe again at all. Three months, and Methos’s stupid, irrational heart was trying to tell him that no time at all had passed. In fact, it seemed to insist that there had been much more of a time warp than that. Three months? Don’t be silly. Surely it was eleven years ago instead, and he was standing in an abandoned Seacouver street, breathlessly waiting for Joe to decide whether to run away or accept the threat of allowing young Adam into his life. It was dark in the cell now, just as it had been dark on that street; and even though Joe’s back was turned his body seemed to gleam lightly against the shadows, a single grace note of beauty in that dark and dingy place. The part of Methos that was still capable of semi-rational thought carefully catalogued his physical appearance, noting that Joe’s clothing was rumpled but that he otherwise seemed unharmed—thank god, Kronos must have issued firm orders to Caspian to stay away. The rest of Methos simply stared. Joe Dawson was here. In Kronos’s Camelot. It was the worst nightmare Methos could imagine. 

And also the sweetest dream come true. 

He knew that Joe knew he was there, although the only indication the mortal gave was to slightly tense his shoulders as Methos approached. A long silent time passed, neither man saying a word. Then, finally, Joe spoke. “You know, there was a time when I used to wonder why you wouldn’t talk more about your past,” he said, still looking at the wall. “I always figured it was something wrong with me, that I’d somehow given you a reason not to trust me with the truth. It never even occurred to me that there might be something in your past so bad that even someone as strong as you couldn’t face it.” He turned his head then, a twist that was not quite a smile on his lips. “Guess I know better now, huh?”

Methos winced. “Perhaps you do,” he said, striving hard for a casual tone. “I take it Cassandra has been telling you stories.”

“Not Cassandra. What, you think I don’t know better than to listen to her? No, it was Caspian. And Silas, too.” Joe shuddered. “I’m honestly not sure which was worse: the stories Caspian told me on purpose to see if he could scare me into wetting my pants, or the ones Silas told me just to be companionable. And all the time they were talking, I just kept thinking: these are the people who call Methos their brother. This is family Methos never talked about. Jesus Christ.” Joe limped over to the bars and put his hands on them, looking out at Methos beseechingly. “I mean, I thought *my* family contained its share of loonies. God knows Horton would never have won the Mr. Sane America pageant. But your family takes the cake. All three of your brothers are barking mad. You *do* know that, don’t you?”

Someone, probably Silas, had dragged an old wooden shipping crate in front of the cell for a seat. Methos sank down onto it. “No,” he corrected gently, shaking his head. “They’re not crazy, Joe.”

“No? Methos, Caspian licked his lips and made complimentary noises about how great the meat in my ass was going to taste. And then Silas patted me on the head like a puppy and told me that he wouldn’t let anybody eat me…unless Caspian threatened one of the monkeys, in which case Silas would have to trade me to him to keep the monkey safe. But he promised me that he’d do his best to make my death quick and easy first, if he did.” Joe shivered. “I think he actually meant to be reassuring.”

“He did.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Joe grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m not seeing the logic behind your ‘not crazy’ argument, Methos.”

“They’re *not* crazy. They’ve just outlived their times, that’s all.” Joe opened his mouth to protest. Methos held up his hand to forestall him. “You can’t possibly imagine what it was like three thousand years ago, Joe. When water was scarce and food was scarcer, and the only way to survive was to take them both from someone else. Caspian’s first death was a suicide to end the pain of starvation—of course he’ll eat anything now, including human flesh. And Silas’s people were nomads. To them, horses meant freedom and herd animals meant life, while other humans just meant more bothersome mouths to feed. Of course he’d kill a man before he’d mistreat an animal. The animals are worth more.” Methos spread his hands. “You see? Complete sanity. Their behavior makes perfect sense, if you judge them by the eras for which they were born.”

“Uh-huh.” Joe looked extremely skeptical. “And Kronos?”

“Ah. Kronos.” Methos let his hands fall back to his knees. “Kronos was born to be the martial leader of his world, an empire builder along the lines of Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan. He was meant to see that his tribe had total supremacy, to bully and manipulate and cajole any other tribes that stood in his way, and then to mow them down if the manipulating didn’t work. He turned out to be especially good at the mowing part.” A faint shrug. “It’s not his fault that people started frowning on genocide as a tool for economic advancement.”

“I see.” For a moment Joe eyed Methos as if he’d grown another head. Then he gave his own head a shake and dropped it, apparently determined to move on. “So what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t act stupid. It’s a perfectly simple question,” Joe replied impatiently. “So Kronos is the warlord, Silas the ancient herdsman, Caspian the ruthless appetite. Fine. I believe you. I just want to know who *you* are. What your role in all this is.” Methos shrugged again and looked down at his hands, unwilling to answer. Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Kronos called you his Lancelot.”

Methos head snapped back up, surprised. “Did he?” Joe nodded. “That’s…disturbing. And very unexpected.”

“Forget unexpected. Was he right?” Joe asked. “Kronos seemed to think you might be the one who was scheming to bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. Ready to betray his king for the sake of a maiden fair.”

Methos gave a humorless snort. “Cassandra really isn’t my type, Joe.” 

“She wasn’t who I meant and you know it. I don’t remember much from my college days, but I do seem to recall my old English professor going on about how gender was meaningless when it came to the classic literary archetypes. Mac could be your Guinevere just as easily as anybody else,” Joe answered. He looked at Methos expectantly, and when it became obvious that Methos wasn’t going to reply, Joe let out a gusty sigh and began to pace back and forth across the cell. “See, I’m in a hell of a position here,” he said as he walked. “Once upon a time, so long ago it almost seems like it never happened at all, I fell in love with a mortal kid named Adam Pierson…”

Methos looked up, his eyes full of anguish. “Don’t.”

“I don’t have a choice, Methos. I have to say what I came to say,” Joe answered. “I repeat: once upon a time I fell in love with a mortal kid named Adam Pierson, who was brilliant and kind and beautiful and altogether perfect in every way. Subsequent events then proved to me that Adam Pierson wasn’t a kid at all, but actually one hell of an old Immortal man—one who was so remarkably closed-lipped about his past experiences and his current feelings that it was damn hard to figure out just *what* he was. In fact, he seemed to take great pleasure in making sure that I *couldn’t* figure it out. Always evading, always making jokes…

“Joe…”

“Quiet. I’m not finished yet,” Joe answered. “It’s hard, trying to love somebody you don’t really know. But like I said before, I figured it was my fault that he couldn’t confide in me, so I kept trying. I even spent an entire summer translating an old journal his 16th century lover had written, a lover who’d apparently had just as much trouble figuring it all out as I did. He wrote that you could never trust a word this Immortal said, that the only way to judge him was to focus on his acts. So, even though we’re not together anymore and some would say it’s none of my business, I’ve been trying to do just that. But lately it’s been pretty hard going.” Joe gestured helplessly as he paced. “I don’t understand any of this, Methos. I don’t understand why you left Seacouver. I don’t understand why you put the Horseman back together. And I really, *really* don’t understand what you’re doing here, or what kind of game you’re playing with MacLeod. Why you would do your damned silly best to alienate him, and then start leaving him clues so he could find you…”

Methos shifted uncomfortably on his crate. “I think Cassandra had more to do with alienating the fair MacLeod’s affections than I did,” he said evasively.

“Bullshit,” Joe said rudely. “She told one hell of a story, that’s all. Mac would have been glad to listen to you, if you’d given him anything to listen *to*. You didn’t try to defend yourself at all. Didn’t even make sure he’d heard your side…”

“And exactly what side would that be?” Methos demanded, half-coming to his feet. “Nothing Cassandra said was untrue, Joe.”

“Yeah. Yeah, so I know.” Joe nodded frantically, still pacing. “I’ve seen into your memories, Methos, so I imagine that I’ve got an even more graphic idea of what happened back then than Mac has. I know you slept with Kronos. I know you raped Cassandra. I know you killed thousands of people, and that you enjoyed pretty much every minute of it. Monster, murderer, Death on a Horse—I *get* it already. I know.” Joe stopped in mid-pace. “See, my problem is this: I know other things, too. I know how you died inside when you found Giulia and Marco’s bodies. I know how you grieved for Darius. And I know exactly how good you are at hiding your true feelings, all the deviousness it’s taken for you to survive.” Joe limped to the front of the cell, put his face to the bars. “So I’ll ask you again, and I warn you, I’m not leaving until I get an answer. Why, Methos? What’s it all for? What kind of game are you playing?”

It was the same question MacLeod had asked. Somehow, Methos knew Joe would not be so easy to distract. “The Horsemen have outlived their time, Joe,” he said quietly. “We no longer fit in the world, we no longer belong. If history was a human body, we would be a cancer—stupidly refusing to die when our time came, threatening the rest of the body’s health. It’s time we were cut out.”

“That’s not an answer, Methos,” Joe said impatiently. “So you decided the Horsemen needed exterminating. Fine. You didn’t have to put them together first. You could have just let Mac finish his fight with Kronos back in that power station in Seacouver, then sought out the others one by one…”

“No. No, I couldn’t have.” Methos answered. “You were outside the power station during that fight, Joe. You didn’t see how close it really was. There was a very good chance that Duncan could have lost…and even if by some miracle he’d managed to take Kronos’s head, they were much too evenly matched for there to have been a clear winner. Duncan wouldn’t have been able to command Kronos’s Quickening. Kronos would have been lost. Forever.”

“And that mattered to you?” 

“It mattered,” Methos said solemnly. “In more ways than you can possibly know.” Joe made a displeased “Tuh!” sound, but he didn’t argue. Methos dropped his voice down low. “I had to find a way to increase MacLeod’s power before he faced Kronos again.” 

“So…” Joe’s forehead furrowed, momentarily forgetting about Kronos as he started adding two and two together. “Oh. *Oh.* Is *that* why you broke Caspian out of prison? Why you took Silas off the Steppes? Because if Mac defeated them first, he’d be strong enough to take Kronos later on?”

“I had hoped to leave Silas out of it,” Methos said wistfully. “I only told Kronos he was alive in the first place because I had to get Kronos out of Seacouver, and nothing but the lure of being Four was strong enough to accomplish that. I’d hoped to send Silas back to his horses once Kronos was dead.” He hunched his shoulders painfully. “But I’ve come to realize that can never be. Silas’s loyalty to Kronos is absolute; I don’t think he’d know how to live in a world where the Horseman are no more. He’d be like a hurt child, lost and confused, likely to strike out at anything or anyone that gets in his way. And so the kindest thing I can do for him—and the mortals who would inevitably cross his path—is to arrange it so that he goes first.” 

“First?”

Methos nodded. “It works out for the best, anyway,” he said sadly. “Silas is old and his Quickening is strong, but he’s been out of the Game for centuries. Duncan should be able to take him easily. The extra strength and stamina Silas’s Quickening will bestow should make Duncan more than a match for Caspian, and then…well. If two 3,000 year old Quickenings aren’t enough to tip the scales in Duncan’s favor, nothing can.” Methos looked bleakly at the storage room’s walls. “But it will be enough. Kronos will fall. And everything he is, his power, his memories, his soul, will go to Duncan MacLeod.”

“Jesus Christ.” Joe was silent for a moment, clearly putting all the pieces together in his mind. Then he looked out at Methos in confusion. “Methos, if that’s really what you’ve been up to all this time, why haven’t you told Mac? He’s spent the last four weeks thinking you’ve betrayed him. He…he doesn’t want to, I know he’s been doing everything he can to talk himself out of it, but he WILL fight you, Methos. If something else bad happens, something that makes him decide you are the monster Cassandra says you are, he will try for your head.”

“I know.”

“You *know*?”

“Yes, Joe. I know. I’ve worked very hard to see to it that he does.” 

“But *why*?”

“Because there aren’t just three Horsemen of the Apocalypse who need to be removed from history, Joe. There are four.”

In the long, silent moments that followed, Joe went very pale. Methos got up off his crate and wandered over to touch one of the room’s massive cement walls, feeling its strength, trying to lose himself in its solidity. “Everything has its time, Joe,” he said quietly. “Even wily old Immortals who have managed to cheat death for more than five millennia. A friend of mine once told me that if I came back to Seacouver I’d have to face things about myself I never wanted to; I finally figured out part of what she meant. I’m *old*, Joe. An Immortal’s body may not age, but his heart and mind most definitely do…and eventually he finds that he’s overstayed his welcome. I am, in my way, just as out of place in this modern era as Kronos is. It’s time to surrender to the inevitable and get the hell out of the way.”

“That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!” Joe shouted. He shook his head savagely. “You’re *not* Kronos, Methos. You’re *not* frozen in time. You *do* belong in this era. If MacLeod needs to find a difference between you and the rest of the Horsemen, a concrete reason why they should die and you should live, that’s it. You keep learning, changing, growing. I know you do. Hell, you know more about modern slang and what music the teenagers are listening to than I do!”

“*Adam Pierson* knew more about modern slang and music than you do,” Methos corrected quietly. “Which just means that I’ve gotten very good at knowing how to blend in. Don’t mistake the camouflage for the thing it’s hiding, Joe.” Joe, looking stricken, opened his mouth and then shut it again. Methos shook his head. “No. It’s time. The last few years have been…unimaginably hard; I’ve hung around too long. And god knows there are worse fates than falling to Duncan MacLeod.” He shrugged. “Some would say it was only justice, after all. The ancient monster finally getting his just reward…” 

“No. *No*.” Joe looked near tears, which Methos supposed was understandable. It must be very hard to learn that someone you’d once thought you loved had spent weeks planning a very elaborate suicide, even if you didn’t care for them anymore. It took Joe several tries to get his next words out. “Methos, if you felt that way, why go through all this? Why leave Seacouver? Why trick Mac into hating you? Why not just tell him the truth, and ask…” Joe’s voice faltered. “Ask him to take you head?”

“Because he’s Duncan MacLeod, that’s why,” Methos answered simply. “Not only does he have foolish noble ideas about not killing anyone he’s ever had sex with, he once gave me a solemn promise that he’d never take my head, even if the day came that I asked. And as you know, it takes extraordinary circumstances to get Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod to break his word. I had to arrange some.” Joe nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. Methos’s face became terrible with loathing. “Besides. I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave this mortal plane before Kronos does. I plan to be around long enough to kick his severed head over the ground like a soccer ball. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do.” 

Joe sounded very hoarse. “And what if something goes wrong, and Kronos beats Duncan after all?”

“Then I go with the winner,” Methos answered. “Kronos will get Duncan’s memories, realize I set him up, and take my head instead…and I won’t fight him, Joe. I have absolutely no desire to live in a world where a man like Kronos has triumphed over the likes of Duncan MacLeod.” He glanced at Joe sharply. “And if that happens, *you* will get out of here as fast as you damn well can. Don’t stop to bury the bodies, and don’t try to take Kronos on by yourself. Just get yourself to the other side of the world, with as many of your Watcher colleagues as you can convince to do the same. You might end up being the only mortals on earth who will know how to stop him. But you’ll have to survive Kronos’s celebratory bloodbath, first.” 

Joe looked horrified. “The virus,” he said. “It’s real?”

“You know about that?”

“Caspian told me. I guess he had to brag to somebody, and I was a captive audience. But I thought he was making the whole thing up to scare me.” Joe nervously wet his lips. “Are you trying to tell me that it actually exists? And that Kronos is actually crazy enough to use it?”

“Without me to distract him or any other Immortal to stand against him? With the power of both Duncan’s and my Quickenings making him giddy with strength? Of course he’ll use it, Joe. It will never even occur to him to hold back.” Methos took the key of the wall and walked back to the cell, undoing the padlock slowly. “And now I think it’s time for you to go,” he said. “Kronos only let you live long enough to talk to me because you amused him. If you don’t leave now, you might not live to walk out at all.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Joe said, with so much honesty that Methos was forced to glance at him sharply. Yes, Joe did indeed know what the stakes were, just what Kronos was capable of doing. It hurt Methos to see that—hurt to look at Joe and know that he really did understand just what he’d risked by coming here, and had done it anyway. Methos closed his eyes, wanting to close out the pain along with his vision. But Joe’s next words, hushed and very, very strained, made him open them again. “Is this…is this the last time I’m ever going to see you?”

More pain. Methos curled his fingers into his palms, hoping that the ache of nail cutting into flesh would block out the pain in his heart. It didn’t. “I hope it is. For your sake,” he answered, and Joe, either rendered speechless or perhaps thinking there was nothing more to say, simply went very pale and began to limp his way out. Methos let him go until he reached the outer door of the storage room, then he spoke. “Joe?”

“Yes?”

He would never get another chance to ask. “I don’t expect this to make much sense, but…well, a friend of mine, the Teacher I met in Nepal, told me to ask you something, once. She was something of a psychic, and she told me I had to ask you about my hiking boots. She said it was important. You wouldn’t happen to know what she was talking about, would you?”

For a moment Joe looked completely blank. “Your hiking boots? I don’t—” Then, suddenly as a lightning strike, understanding flashed into his eyes. He spun around slowly in place, looking stunned. “Oh. Oh.”

“It means something to you, then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. But who could possibly…” Joe suddenly assumed the dumbfounded expression of a man having a major revelation. “Methos. This friend of yours. She doesn’t happen to have a thing for Star Trek, does she?”

“How on earth would you know that?”

“I think I may have gotten a postcard from her, once,” Joe answered. He still looked stunned. “Nepal. The stamps must have been from Nepal. I should have put it together sooner.”

“Joe?”

“Sorry. Woolgathering.” Joe cleared his throat. “Um. Your hiking boots. I can’t say for certain it’s what your friend meant, but I can only think of one thing. I know you don’t remember, but right after you killed Kristin you weren’t doing too great, so I took you back to my place to take care of you. I had to cut off your hiking boots before I put you to bed, because your laces had melted during the Quickening…”

“Yes?” Methos said impatiently. He’d heard this much of the story from MacLeod. “And what’s so significant about that?”

“Methos, the laces had *melted*,” Joe repeated slowly, as if talking to an idiot. “Melted. As in, been turned to liquid by the amount of energy coursing through your body. I saw that, and I knew. For the first time, I really knew.”

“Knew what?” Methos demanded irritably. “That nylon has rotten conductive qualities? That I should have exercised more care with my fashion footwear choices? What?”

“Knew what being Immortal really meant,” Joe said quietly. Methos made a soft sound of disgust. Joe spoke quickly, defensively. “Look. I don’t expect it to make sense to *you*. You are what you are, and have been for a very long time. There aren’t any surprises left. But me? I saw that, and I finally understood how beyond me you really were. How different. How strange…”

“How freakish,” Methos said bitterly.

“No,” Joe said, and there was so much tenderness in the word that Methos was stunned. “How special.” Joe looked at him pleadingly. “You still don’t get it, do you? That was the moment I realized just what a miracle you were, and just how little I could offer you in return. I’d Watched Immortals all my life, but I had no idea you had to be careful about your shoelaces! Let alone how to help you through a Quickening that refused to settle! That’s why I let Mac take you away the next morning. That’s why I never told you we’d been together after you’d lost your memory. That’s even the reason why I…why I kept pushing you at Mac, after The Messenger came to town. Because you needed to be with someone who could understand.”

“Oh my god.” Methos felt like he’d just been doused with cold water. “Oh. My. God. *That* was why you pushed me at Duncan? Because you thought…” He almost choked on the words. “Because you thought he could *understand* me?”

“What other reason could there be?”

“I thought you didn’t want me!”

It came out as a shout, echoing around the dungeon. Joe looked horrified. “Is that really what you thought?” he asked. Methos didn’t answer, but he inhaled sharply, and he turned his back quickly so Joe couldn’t see his face. “I wanted you,” Joe said, soft and low. “I wanted you so much it scared me. I still do.”

“Then *why*?”

“Because I knew you needed more than I could give, that’s why! I knew it all along, and when the Messenger told me—” Joe stopped abruptly. 

“Yes?” Methos demanded fractiously, whirling back around to face him. He wasn’t about to let Joe get away with silence now. “When the Messenger told you what?”

“He—I—” Joe stuttered. If possible he looked even paler than before. “I went to see him after you talked to him, just before Culbraith took his head. I went to tell him to get out of town, and he… he told me that the Immortal who had come to see him earlier that day felt different. He said he could tell from your Quickening that you were bonded to another Immortal, connected with a strength that made even the strongest mortal love seem like a child’s crush. He said it would even outlast an Immortal death, and I…I thought…” 

“Oh.” Methos covered his face with his hands. Yes, the Messenger was probably just experienced enough to understand what the peculiarities of Methos’s Quickening really meant, to realize that Methos’s essence was no longer his own. Why had he told Joe? Out of spite? Or out of a misguided attempt to do some good? Not that the reason really mattered, now. The damage had been done. “And you thought that meant we were soul mates, destined to walk hand in hand into the sunset forever,” Methos said dully. “So naturally you decided to do the noble thing. To gallantly step aside and keep throwing us at each other until we figured it out for ourselves.” 

“Yeah.” Yes, there was no question about it now, there was no blood left in Joe’s face at all. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

Methos nodded leadenly, face still covered. “I don’t suppose,” he said into his fingers, “that during all this benevolent plotting and planning for my future, it ever occurred to you to talk to *me*. To ask me to explain what the Messenger really meant.”

“Why would I?” Joe replied tartly. “I *knew* what he meant, even if you and Mac seemed to be in denial at the time. I saw the way you looked at him, Methos. And the way he looked at you!”

“I looked at him that way because I knew he was going to kill me someday, Joe,” Methos said wearily. “And he looked at me that way because he knew it too, and he was doing everything in his power to find another way.”

Joe’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

So Methos told him. About old Immortals and the youngsters who were destined to take their heads, about young Immortals and their wretched morality that wouldn’t let them kill their elders without reason. About surrender and limbo and Quickenings that tried to leave the body to go to the victor, even when that body’s head was still firmly attached. And about the attraction that sprung up under those circumstances, strong and unavoidable… “Is *that* why you slept with him that first time, then?” Joe asked in horror when Methos had finally finished. “Not because you really wanted him? Just because your Quickening wanted to…to…” 

“Yes.” 

“But that…that’s rape! If you didn’t really want to, but you couldn’t say no…”

“No, Joe. It wasn’t. Or if was, we were both equal victims. Duncan didn’t want this any more than I did.” 

“You should have told me!”

“And just when was I suppose to do that, Joe?” Methos demanded. “Back when you were still so freaked out by my Immortality that just watching one bad cut heal made you brood for days? Or when I first got back from Nepal, and you didn’t want to hear one word of explanation about the situation at all? As I recall, all you wanted me to do then was “fix it”. How would you have reacted to learning that it couldn’t be fixed? That even though my heart belonged to you, my Quickening belonged to *him*, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it?” Methos gave a broken little laugh. “Tell me, tell me when it would have been a good time to tell you that.” 

Joe sank down onto the crate next to him. “There wouldn’t have been a good time,” he admitted gruffly. “It would have driven me crazy, knowing there was any part of you I had to share. I would have reacted badly, maybe even accused you of making the whole thing up. But now…oh, Methos.” Joe’s head slumped. “If I’d just asked anyway, and taken the time to let the truth sink in… everything could have been so different. We’d have worked something out with Mac, and you wouldn’t have had to face Kronos on your own. God. What I’ve done to you. To us…”

The stricken quality in Joe’s voice called to Methos. From some previously unknown place inside himself he found a little more strength. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to allow him to straighten his backbone and speak with some kind of calm. “No, Joe,” he said. “You haven’t done anything. I was the one who messed everything up, just by being what I am. I still am messing it up. I always do.” He swallowed hard. “The one good thing about this situation is that I won’t ever be able to mess up anything again.”

“No.” Joe’s voice was choked. “*No.*” He turned on Methos, eyes glistening with tears. “Bastard. Don’t you get it? This stuff about you no longer belonging in the world is crap. You do belong. You belong with me.”

“Joe—”

“Shut up. I’ve listened to you; now it’s your turn to listen to me. I don’t care about Quickenings and destiny, and I don’t care how badly you think you need to be punished for your past. You are going to walk away from this. You have to. The alternative is…”

“Unthinkable?” Methos said with a sickly ghost of a smile. Hollowly, Joe nodded. “I’m afraid it’s all too thinkable, Joe,” Methos said sadly. “But…” He hesitated, then he reached out and laid gentle fingers on the bearded cheek. Joe hissed softly and closed his eyes. “It wasn’t because you didn’t want me,” Methos whispered.

Joe shook his head, eyes still tightly closed. “No. It never was.”

“Then I’ll try. I’ll try hard. It may not work—the game may have gone too far to stop—but I’ll try.” Methos glanced up; he could hear the sounds of footsteps echoing down the hall. His face hardened, and pulled his hand away. “Now go. Go fast. This is no place for a mortal to be.”

Joe didn’t argue. He went.

***

Kronos was in the great hall when Methos surfaced from the dungeons, lounging casually with yet another piece of chicken in his hand. “I hope your pet didn’t find our accommodations too primitive,” he said. 

“Hmm?” Mind and heart still with Joe, it took Methos a moment to realize Kronos had spoken. He blinked for a second, then pasted on his best nonchalant expression. It wouldn’t do to arouse Kronos’s suspicions. Not now, not when the entire world had changed. “Oh, he’s long gone,” Methos said lightly. “He won’t be coming back.” 

“Good,” Kronos answered. “Because I was beginning to regret having left him alive at all. It seems to me that you’ve become dangerously distracted as it is, Methos.” Kronos eyed him appraisingly. “Your bomb didn’t go off.” 

So MacLeod had managed to put those twenty-four minutes to good use, after all. Inwardly, Methos gave a huge sigh of relief. Outwardly, he remained unconcerned. “Didn’t it?”

“No. Not much of a plan, was it?”

“Ah, well. I’ll think of better.” And he would, too. Plan after plan to keep Joe safe and Kronos’s destructive impulses under control, until the Highlander was rested and ready to fight the battles Methos so needed him to fight. And after that? When Kronos was dead, and Duncan possessed both his Quickening and his memory? Methos still didn’t have a plan for that. The odds of escaping a wrathful Highlander who had Technicolor access to a thousand years of Methos’s worst sins seemed very slim. But somehow, Methos would find a way. Because Joe had asked him to. “I suppose something must have gone wrong with the triggering mechanism,” Methos said to Kronos now, tone almost insultingly relaxed. “Next time I’ll come up with something a bit more foolproof.”

“I’m sure you will. Otherwise, I’m going to have to improvise,” Kronos answered. He nibbled his chicken thoughtfully. “By the way, where were you earlier? Before you went down to play with your pet, I mean.”

A tiny warning bell went off in his Methos’s head. He covered his discomfort at once. “Oh, that,” he said calmly. “I was just…”

“Warning your friend.” Kronos finished for him. He tossed the chicken bone into the fire and got to his feet, coming to stand threateningly close. “You didn’t *really* think I wouldn’t know you’d tell MacLeod, now did you?” 

Uh-oh. Warning bells now escalating to full-fledged sirens, Methos stared at Kronos, trying to read his face. But much to Methos’s surprise, Kronos didn’t seem angry. He just looked…tolerant. And possibly even affectionate. What the hell was going on? “Look,” Methos said evasively, trying to stall for time. “It’s not what you think…” 

“Oh, it’s exactly like I think,” Kronos interrupted. “My dear brother, didn’t you realize? That’s what makes you my perfect right arm. We think alike.” Kronos pointed at his own forehead, cocking his head with a charming smile. “We always have.”

Double uh-oh. Methos had no idea where Kronos was going with this, and that was terrifying. “I doubt that, Kronos,” he said, still playing for time. “Nobody thinks quite like you.”

“Spoken like a true scholar,” Kronos said with a grin. He removed a small black box from his pocket. “Look at this.”

Completely off balance now, Methos frowned at the tiny box. It looked like some kind of transmitter, complete with buttons and a tiny antenna. “What is it?”

“It’s a detonator,” Kronos answered, barely containing his glee. “Isn’t it wonderful what modern technology can do? All I have to do is punch in a few numbers, and a small vial of my virus explodes in the reservoir above Bordeaux. And then…” Kronos’s smile became more luminous still, almost frightening in its insane brilliance. “Well. You know what happens next, don’t you.” 

Methos nodded woodenly. He did indeed know what happened next. Death. Terror. Mayhem. And power, too. A world transformed… Kronos tucked the detonator back into his pocket. “We all have our little plans,” he said. “I'm sure you won't disappoint me with yours. Come with me. I have something else to show you.”

Speechless, Methos followed. Kronos led Methos along a corridor to a balcony overlooking one of the lower levels—the true dungeon, the one with the cage half submerged in water. In it, moaning softly as she fought to regain consciousness, was a woman. Cassandra. “She was asking about you,” Kronos said cheerfully. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you sent MacLeod to that fountain, didn’t you? So, I did what you expected. I went and got Cassandra while she was unprotected. That *was* your plan, now wasn’t it?” Softly, silently, chilled from the heart out, Methos nodded. Kronos smiled broadly. “You see, I know you better than yourself.”

Down in the cage, Cassandra gave another groan. Methos listened to the echo of it die away, wondering just what kind of game Kronos was playing with him now. Surely Kronos couldn’t be so stupid—or so willfully blind—as to really believe that Methos had given any thought to Cassandra at all. He had to have known that Methos’s foiling of the bomb plot was betrayal, pure and simple. But it was best to play along. “Which is why the plan was perfect,” Methos murmured.

“Your plans always are,” Kronos answered. He turned his back on Cassandra, regarding Methos thoughtfully. “I wonder what your friend MacLeod thinks of you now, though.”

“You think I care?”

“You should,” Kronos replied smugly. “You were the one who lured him away. When he comes back to find that someone’s stolen his woman…well, if that was *me*?” Kronos leaned in close, speaking almost gleefully into Methos’s ear. “I’d want you dead.”

And suddenly it all came clear. Kronos knew exactly what Methos had done, where his true allegiance lay. But Kronos didn’t want Methos’s head. He wanted Methos’s loyalty…and so he had acted, smoothly and brilliantly, to do what was necessary to secure it. He had destroyed Methos’s connection to his only ally—destroyed it utterly, because there was no way MacLeod would ever believe Methos hadn’t planned Cassandra’s capture. And at the same time, Kronos had bound Methos closer to him then ever by giving Methos an excuse for his actions, because there was no way Methos could say “No, Kronos, that wasn’t the plan at all, I meant for MacLeod to destroy the bomb.” All he could do was smile sickly and go along with it. And know that Kronos would be watching him like a hawk from here on out... “Well then,” Methos said aloud, stomach twisting as he realized just how thoroughly Kronos had him trapped. “I suppose we should prepare for MacLeod to come here.”

Kronos’s eyes sparkled. “Already thought of that,” he said innocently.

And a number of things came together in Methos’s mind, things he really should have noticed earlier. Kronos’s smugness. The quiet coming from the labs and the monkey cages. And the fact that Cassandra lay in her cage alone, without either Silas to stand guard or Caspian to torture her. “Who did you send?” Methos asked, silently praying that Duncan was really ready for this, had had enough time to rest and prepare. “Caspian or Silas?”

Kronos chuckled. “Both,” he said, and slid a companionable arm around Methos’s shoulders. “Don’t look so worried, Methos! I know our brothers are sadly out of practice. Still, the two of them should be more than a match for one four-hundred-year old Highland child, don’t you think?” Methos managed a tiny nod. Kronos clapped him on the back. “That’s better. All you have to worry about now is which spike you want to display MacLeod’s head on when they bring it back. And how you are going to explain it to Cassandra, when they do. She still believes he’s going to rescue her, poor thing. I think I’ll let you break the news to the contrary, my brother. It will mean so much more coming from you.” 

And Kronos strode away down the hall, whistling a merry tune. 

***

Methos stayed on the balcony for a long time after Kronos’s whistle had died away, feeling the terrible sensation of an entire world unraveling around his ears. He stayed there until Cassandra suddenly doubled over with a gasp, vomiting heavily into the water at the bottom of her cage as she finally regained consciousness. Methos regarded her coldly for a moment, then shook his head and went to the kitchens. The dusty can of French military beans Methos found in the pantry—naturally, Kronos had eaten all the chicken—had quite a sour smell, and probably weren’t the best meal in the world to offer to someone who had just thrown up. Still, the beans were the best he could do, and they certainly didn’t deserve the savage kick Cassandra gave them when he set the bowl in her cell. “Well,” Methos said, after the splashing had died away. “This is familiar.”

“I’m not your sorry little slave anymore, to take whatever scraps I’m given,” Cassandra answered haughtily. “I know what I am now, what you are. You might have fooled MacLeod, but you never fooled me.”

“I wasn’t trying to fool anyone.”

“Oh no?” Cassandra gave a nasty little laugh. “It seems to me that fooling is all you’ve done.” She pulled her knees up into her chest. “If MacLeod knew what you really were, he’d have taken your head long ago.”

Methos’s entire body slumped. “Well, he had his chance,” he said hoarsely. “He didn’t.” Cassandra sniffed and turned her back. For a moment, Methos considered turning his back as well. It would be so easy just to abandon her here, to wade away through the swill and never come back. But no. MacLeod had cared for her, perhaps even loved her, in his way. Methos owed his memory more than simply walking away. He decided to try a clumsy attempt at reconciliation. “You know, it wasn’t all bad,” he said awkwardly, wishing he had more time to come up with the right thing to say. “When we were together. Before.”

Whatever the right thing to say was, this clearly wasn’t it. Cassandra flinched as if slapped, and Methos silently cursed his own idiocy. *Yes, of course,* he thought bitterly. *The best way to win a rape victim’s heart is ALWAYS to remind her of her months of captivity, and then tell her that they weren’t all bad. Didn’t the American Journal of Psychiatry publish that as their preferred method of treatment just last month?* He opened his mouth to apologize…and then he caught the expression on Cassandra’s face. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t fearful, either. It was something else. A yearning, passionate and strong…. “I only served you because you forced me,” Cassandra said. But there was a quaver in her voice that plainly said not even she really believed it.

Methos just barely managed to keep himself from groaning aloud. Could it be that after thousands of years, some of his painstaking brainwashing still held? Could some small part of Cassandra still want him, still crave his touch, his control? God. No wonder she wanted him dead. “Don’t hate yourself,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

She looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “What are you talking about?” 

“Stockholm syndrome.” Methos got up and sloshed through the water to Cassandra’s side of the cage. “It’s a survival mechanism, Cassandra. Like with Patty Hearst. Hostages come to rely on their captors for food and approval, and they fall in love.”

“I never loved you!”

“You thought you did. You had to. The human mind doesn’t take well to being completely powerless, Cassandra. It has to come up with some illusion of control, or it goes insane. It’s always better to believe you’re in love and somehow wanted to be held prisoner than to realize how truly helpless you are. Better to think your captor loves you back and will protect you than to deal with the terror of knowing he could slaughter you on a whim.” 

She made a disbelieving sound, half strangled laugh, half disdainful snort. “And just what would you know about that kind of terror, Methos?”

“More than you know, Cassandra. More than you know.” Methos looked down gloomily at his soaking feet, wondering just how long it would be before he, too, succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome and concocted a similar story about Kronos. It wouldn’t be right away. As long as Joe drew breath Methos would have to stay sane, keep enough wits to stay at Kronos’s side and stop him from destroying the world and Joe along with it. But after that? When Joe was gone, and there was no longer a reason to care? How long would it be before he ‘came to his senses’ and fell in love with Kronos, the same way Cassandra had fallen for him? “It wasn’t your fault that you forgot what I was,” Methos finished sadly, and wondered if he was talking to his own future self as much as he was to the Immortal seer. “Not your fault at all.”

Cassandra slammed her palms savagely against the cage, snapping Methos squarely back into the present. “I forgot nothing!” she shrieked. “I was just biding my time until I could make you pay. And you *will* pay, Methos, I swear on my life you’ll pay. I’ll take your head with my bare hands, and Kronos’s too…”

Methos shook his head. “No. No, you won’t,” he said, with so much quiet conviction that it actually cut through Cassandra’s rage. She sagged back onto her seat, the wind completely taken from her sails. Methos bent closer to the bars. “Look. I have seen what happens to people who go up against Kronos. I can’t defeat him. Neither can you. If we want to survive, we will keep him happy.” He looked into her eyes, willing her to see exactly what he meant, willing her also to understand that she was not alone. He would be with her, and it would cost him just as much. “Using whatever means necessary.”

She stared at him, shocked but comprehending, and for a moment Methos actually thought he’d reached her. Then she slumped against the bars, utterly defeated. “I didn’t do it then,” she said softly. “And I won’t do it now. I’d rather die.” 

“Well then, you’ll die.” Methos knew the words sounded cruel, but saying them was the most compassionate thing he could do. The sooner he made Cassandra realize just how trapped she was, how trapped they both were, the easier it would be. For a moment Methos wondered if it was too soon to tell her the rest, then he hardened his heart. You did not toughen someone for battle by pulling any blows. “And you can forget about MacLeod coming to rescue either of us,” he said. “MacLeod is dead.”

Cassandra looked stunned. “What?”

“Kronos sent both Silas and Caspian to Challenge him. It’s over, Cassandra. Even if by some miracle Duncan manages to defeat one, the other will just take his head while he’s absorbing the Quickening.” Methos’s jaw tightened. “Not even Duncan MacLeod can win against two Challengers who refuse to play by the rules.” 

“No,” Cassandra denied, shaking her head vehemently. “You’re lying! Kronos would never send one of his brothers on a suicide mission, not even to kill MacLeod. He would never sacrifice one of the Four.”

“He would. And he has. Which, if you’re smart, should tell you everything you need to know about Kronos’s current state of mind. And just how important keeping him happy really is.” Methos lowered his voice. “Don’t be a fool, Cassandra. I know exactly what I’m asking you to do, the kind of nightmare that lies ahead. I know you must have sworn to yourself a thousand times that you would cut off your own head before you’d ever be in this place again. Believe me, I know…” He broke off, gathered himself together with an effort. “And if it was just you and me, I’d let you. I might even race you to the sword. But it’s *not* just us, Cassandra. Kronos wants to plunge the world into another dark age. *Someone* has to stay alive to check him, work behind the scenes to protect the mortal world as best they can. And so I’m going to ask you to do what I know you’d rather die than do. Stay alive, Cassandra. Put survival ahead of pride.” He swallowed. “That’s what I’m going to be doing.” *For you, Joe. For you.*

Cassandra looked completely speechless, so Methos stopped talking. He went to the kitchen for a second helping of beans and then to the laundries for a blanket. When he returned to the dungeon, Cassandra steadfastly ignored the food. But at least she didn’t kick the bowl away this time, and after some hesitation she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, even if she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Small victories. Methos settled back down on his ledge, preparing for a long, cold wait.

He was still sitting there when Kronos strode in, Silas at his heels. Methos got to his feet, a convincing excuse for Cassandra’s blanket already on his lips, but Kronos ignored them both. “Stay with her,” he commanded Silas. The large Immortal instantly took up position by the cage door, axe in hand. “If MacLeod even comes close, kill her.”

“MacLeod?” Cassandra started up, a flurry of wild hope in her eyes. “He’s alive?” 

“Not for long,” Kronos answered brusquely. His eye fell on Methos. “Come with me, my clever friend. You and I are going to poison a city.”

Not following was impossible. Methos got up, sloshed through the water to the dungeon stairs, and left at Kronos’s side. Kronos strode through the lower levels of the submarine base with a tight, angry tread, vibrating all over with suppressed energy and rage. He seemed to Methos to be an Immortal version of his virus, a whirlwind of certain death caught in narrow glass vial. All Methos could do was hope that nothing would cause the fragile glass to break. “What’s happened?” he asked, tone low. “Where’s Caspian?”

“Dead.”

Impossible. Not even Duncan could have survived two warriors, could he? “MacLeod killed him?”

“Who else? Silas? Not all of us have your talent for treachery, Methos,” Kronos said. He shot Methos a sideways glance. “It seems that your ‘friend’ MacLeod is a much more powerful adversary than I had suspected. I finally begin to understand why your loyalties have been so divided.”

“Kronos…”

“Silence, brother.” Kronos raised an imperious hand. “I am not angry. After all, I was the one who failed *you* when I allowed you to get away, so many centuries ago. It makes complete sense to me that, in my absence, you would seek out another protector. And even more sense that you would choose to play us against each other now, to find out which of us is truly strong enough to keep your loyalty. But we need play this game no longer.” Kronos’s pace quickened. “I’ve won. I have your playmate’s woman. Soon enough I’ll have his head. And you will rule the world at my side. Just as it was always meant to be.” 

A strong Immortal buzz filled the room, halting them both in their tracks. Methos knew instantly that it was MacLeod, and his whole skin tingled with the knowledge. Kronos saw his reaction. He smiled ferally. “Well, well,” he murmured. “So your knight approaches, and much more quickly than I thought. You must have given him some clue to lead him to us, hmmm? Never mind. I’m pleased; now neither of us will have to wait for me to demonstrate to whom you really belong. Let’s see how long it takes for me to get him on his knees, shall we?” Kronos moved slightly forward, planting his feet firmly against the steel flooring. “MacLeod!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the walls. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. I believe we have some business to conclude.”

Duncan stepped out from behind a corner, coming to stand at the very top of the steps. His warrior’s eyes swept around the room, taking in the stairs, the space below, and the two Immortals who stood within it. “Well, well,” he said, voice thick with disdain. “Look what we have here. Two of the Three Horseman of the Apocalypse. Doesn’t exactly have the same ring to it, now does it, Kronos? What are you going to do now?”

“You’re not going to be around long enough to find out,” Kronos answered confidently.

“Oh? We’ll see about that.” Duncan drew his sword. 

To Methos, in that moment, the Highlander looked almost like a figure from another world: his dark coat made his body seem almost one with the shadows, and what little light there was gleamed menacingly in his eyes. The full force of his Quickening washed over him, making Methos shudder with its strength--Duncan was so strong now, the power of Caspian’s Quickening already fully absorbed and rippling through his own. Would it be enough? Would taking just one of the Horsemen give Duncan the edge he needed to defeat Kronos for good? If not, it was too late to do anything about it now. Kronos’s and Duncan’s Quickenings were already crackling electrically in the air, tangling together like so many strands of snarled yarn—the Challenge had been engaged. But Kronos, it seemed, had one more diversion in mind. “Think of Cassandra,” he said pleasantly.

The arrow flew true. Duncan’s face fell, and Methos could feel his sudden hesitation. Kronos sensed it, too. “Why yes, she’s here. Didn’t you know?” he said, almost gleefully. “Methos did an excellent job of distracting you so we could take her hostage. She’s down in the dungeons now, Silas’s axe just inches from her neck. And what a pretty neck it is, too. Such soft skin. And so sensitive, when you touch her just the right way….” Duncan flinched, and Kronos’s smile became blinding. “I know you wouldn’t want to put all that at risk. Lay down your sword, and she lives. Fight and win—or lose—and she dies.”

MacLeod’s voice was chill. “So that’s why,” he said to Methos, completely ignoring Kronos. “I’d wondered why you asked me to meet you, why you bothered to tell me about the bomb. Now I understand. It was all just a scheme to get me out of the way.” Duncan’s face set into harsh unyielding lines. “You set me up.”

“Well, of course he did!” Kronos boomed merrily. “I don’t think you understand my brother at all, MacLeod. There’s nothing he wants more than to serve, but he thinks too highly of himself to bend his knee before just anyone. He must always be scheming, always be testing, to make sure his master is really strong enough to hold his loyalties. I’m afraid you failed the test.”

Almost imperceptibly, Duncan’s hand tightened on the blade. “Is that true?” he asked. “Is he right? Was this all a test, to…to see if I was strong enough to hold you?”

Methos bit down on his lip. He wanted, god how he wanted, to pull his sword and attack Kronos himself: to prove to Duncan once and for all that he hadn’t been abandoned, that Cassandra’s capture, at least, had been unintentional. But he couldn’t. His weak Quickening meant that he couldn’t even strike a single blow. He couldn’t speak the truth either, or Kronos would turn around and gut him without a second thought. All he could do was stand there like the slave he was, and try to send a coded message Duncan could understand. “It’s like you said. I always planned to go with the winner,” he said softly, hoping against hope that Duncan would discern the real meaning behind the words. *You. It was you. I always intended to offer my head to you…*

It didn’t work. Duncan flinched again, his cold gaze going even colder. Kronos smiled broadly and stepped back in front of Methos, effectively stating his ownership. “And we all know who *that* will be,” he said, with the smugness of a man who knows he’s already won everything before the dice have even been thrown. “Well, Highlander. As you can see, Methos’s heart is once again firmly where it belongs, and you have other concerns. Namely, Cassandra, who thanks to my brother’s machinations will die weeping in agony unless you put up your sword this minute. Come on, MacLeod! You’ve already lost everything else that matters. You might as well do some good with your death. Your life for hers, what do you say?”

Duncan was silent, and for a long, terrible moment, Methos actually thought he’d say yes. Then he looked at Methos, disgust plain. “I think she’d rather be dead.” He started down the steps, closing the distance between them.

“Your call!” Kronos announced gleefully, dancing back out of the way. “Methos, go down to the dungeons. Tell Silas to finish her. And make sure that she knows it was MacLeod’s decision. Give her time to fully grasp his betrayal before Silas takes her head.” 

“You don’t have to do this, Methos!” Duncan shouted desperately.

Kronos’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I think he does,” he purred. “Go now, my brother. Make Cassandra’s last moments all that they can be.”

Methos went.

He sprinted off towards the dungeons. Behind him, he could hear the swords begin to clash as the Challenge was engaged, and he could feel it too: his unique connection with Duncan seemed stronger than ever as Duncan’s and Kronos’s Quickenings circled and fought, the energies lashing each other even more furiously than the blades. He could feel Kronos’s hot excitement. He could feel Duncan’s icy determination…a determination that flickered the moment Methos disappeared from his sight, and Duncan really believed he was going to kill Cassandra as Kronos asked. For a second Methos was overwhelmed by the Highlander’s anguish, his deep, poignant grief. Then Duncan’s determination returned, although this time it felt brittle somehow, a fragile shell that just barely covered Duncan’s misery. It was a shell that wouldn’t last long under Kronos’s attack…

Methos doubled his steps. 

He flew the rest of the way to the dungeons, almost falling over with relief when he saw that Cassandra still had her head attached. Silas frowned when he saw him. “MacLeod’s here?” he asked. Methos nodded, panting heavily as he tried to regain his breath. He waited for the big Immortal to unlock Cassandra’s cage and haul her out into the water, axe poised. Then, Methos quickly stepped forward, raising his sword. “You’re Challenging *me*?” Silas said in confusion. “For the girl’s head?” He stepped back, out of the way. “Take it. She’s yours, brother.”

Methos slowly shook his head. “I am not your brother,” he said, not without a measure of sadness. “And I’m not here to kill Cassandra, Silas. I’m here to set her free.” Through their connection, Methos felt Duncan’s energy jump fearfully, as if Kronos had gotten in a blow that had come much too close. Methos swore under his breath. He was running out of time. “Silas, stand aside.” 

He’d expected Silas to react with confusion to this, as baffled as if Methos had suddenly started speaking in tongues. But the big Immortal didn’t look confused at all. “It’s MacLeod, isn’t it,” he said, and Methos knew that Silas had understood much more than it appeared. “You’re setting her free for him.” Silas cocked his head, looking as upset as a child who had just been slapped by its best friend. “Kronos said it might come to this, that you would betray us for him in the end. I didn’t believe him. But now I see that he was right. Why, Methos? Why did you choose him over us? Why did you decide you’d rather be his pet than our brother?”

The hurt, lost tone in Silas’s voice made Methos’s heart twist. “It’s not that simple,” he said, and when Silas simply tightened his hand on his axe Methos spoke quickly, desperately. “Silas, think about this. Neither of us needs this kind of life anymore, the bloodshed, the death. All MacLeod needs is to see that Cassandra is still alive, and it will give him the strength he needs to defeat Kronos. The two of us can finally be free. You can go home to your farm, and I can visit you there; I can help you bring in your fall crop, even help deliver your favorite mare’s next foal. All you have to do is step aside…”

“No,” Silas said softly, and when Methos moved to step around him, he blocked Methos’s sword with his axe. “No.” They stared at each other, Methos unbelieving, Silas unyielding…and then Methos slowly dropped his head. Even if his weakened Quickening hadn’t been an issue, Methos couldn’t fight Silas. Not *Silas*, whose only modern crime had been trusting Methos enough to follow him here in the first place. He took a slow step back…

…and the light that had been blocked by Methos’s shoulder suddenly shone on the two blades, sparkling off the place where they crossed. Methos’s eyes went wide. He’d seen this scene, blade crossed with axe, a thousand times before. Every practice session Cassie had ever had him fight against an axe in Nepal had started just this way. Mind momentarily numbed by the shock of recognition, Methos heard her voice echo inside his mind: *you are going to have to confront yourself in ways you never wanted to* and he knew it was the truth. He could no longer believe in Cassie’s promise of a happy ending, but this made sense to him, in a way that very little else ever had. It was time to make a final choice between who he once and been and who he had become; it was time to end this, once and for all. Sadly, almost resignedly, Methos shifted his feet into a defensive stance…and Silas, who had been watching him closely, knew it. Silas’s mouth dropped open. “How can you do this?” he asked. “How can you go against everything you are?”

“You know nothing about what I am,” Methos answered sorrowfully. And swung.

Cassie had prepared him well. Methos’s arms already knew exactly how to block each one of Silas’s deadly swings, and his feet already knew exactly where to lead: guiding Silas step by inexorable step out of the dungeons and up to where MacLeod and Kronos were fighting. There was a long moment of silence when Methos and Silas first stumbled down an old gangplank into the submarine bay, revealing them both to Duncan and Kronos’s view; time seemed to halt, both battles momentarily suspended as they all stared at each other. “Methos,” Kronos whispered, and Methos felt a part of himself die at the sound. For all the horror, all the death, what they had been together had been glorious, and now it was gone for good. Methos swung back into the battle, knowing from Cassie’s practice sessions that the end was only a few short moves away. As he went through them, he heard Kronos insanely screaming “I am the end of time!” but Methos paid him no heed. Silas had overbalanced, was stumbling away from Methos with his back turned, his neck exposed. All it would take to finish the battle was a single stroke. 

Methos gave it.

As he watched Silas’s body crumple to the floor, unearthly glow already beginning to flow from the corpse, Methos knew that his life was over, too. Silas was nearly as old as Kronos, and he’d taken many, many heads. There was no way Methos was going to come through this intact, not now that his damaged Quickening could give Silas’s energy no safe place to go. Would he remember any of this, in ten minutes time? Would another Methos, one without his memories, walk out of here and provide Joe with someone to love, even if that other Methos didn’t remember Joe’s name? Or would he become a vegetable, baffling modern science with his inability to age, until some other Immortal found him and took his head? It didn’t matter. Methos had done his part. The sounds from the upper balcony had ceased. Kronos had disappeared from view, but Duncan was still standing, head most definitely attached. Their eyes met across the distance, Duncan’s wild, Methos’s calm. *It’s all right,* Methos thought, silently willing the Highlander to somehow read his thoughts and understand. *I knew it had to be this way, and it’s all right. Tell Joe that I tried to find a way to live for him, I really did, but it just didn’t work out. Tell Joe…*

The first bolt of Silas’s energy hit him. 

It pierced Methos’s body like a gunshot, flaying every nerve with pain. Methos screamed aloud. This was it. Silas’s energy would circle and sting at him until there was nothing left, until his mind had no choice but to break in an attempt to escape the pain. Distantly, Methos heard MacLeod screaming too, as the Highlander’s own fiery baptism began; Methos forced his eyes open to look at him, needing the small comfort of knowing he wasn’t going through this alone. Perhaps Duncan felt the same way, because his eyes were open too, and he was looking Methos’s way. Once again their gazes locked…

And it was like nothing Methos had ever seen before. Ever felt before, either. He sensed Duncan’s concern reaching out for him, and suddenly the connection that had always been so tangible between them became visible as well. Methos could actually *see* it, spiraling like a spiritual umbilical, linking the two of them together body, mind, and soul. The cloud of energy that had been Kronos lashed at Duncan with renewed vigor, trying to break them apart, but it couldn’t be done. The power connecting them was too great. Methos and Duncan stared at each other, and then, shockingly, Methos heard Duncan’s voice. ~Methos?~

Methos gasped. Duncan’s lips hadn’t moved--the sound of the Highlander’s voice had come from the inside of Methos’s own mind, as intimate as his own thoughts. ~MacLeod???~ 

Through the link Methos felt Duncan’s wonder. He watched as Duncan raised a hand, reverently touching the swirling energy that linked them together. ~I can *see* you, Methos…~

And Methos wanted to weep, because he saw Duncan, too. Saw all of him, in a way that was completely beyond mortal eyes. He saw memories and feelings and thoughts. He saw dreams and passions and fears. He saw the hurts of an Immortal lifetime, carefully shaped into a hard, seamless sphere that the Highlander kept tucked inside his solar plexus, ready to act as a powerful fuel for battle when needed. Most of all, Methos saw the nobility of him, the purity of soul, the great shining spirit that would carry Duncan MacLeod to the very end of the Game. And it terrified him. Because he knew Duncan was seeing him with the same clarity. And five thousand years had not refined Methos’s soul into a shining orb, dazzling to both eyes and heart; instead, it had left him with a spirit as ragged as a beggar’s cloak, filled with tears and holes. He knew Duncan was witnessing those holes, seeing all the pain and petty violence with which five millennia had shaped him, and it was more than he could bear. ~End this,~ Methos begged through the link. ~I already know who I am, what I’ve done, and I’ve given everything I can to make it right. Don’t make it worse by making it last longer than it has to. Please. Let me go…~

He saw the shining Highland eyes go soft with sadness. ~Yes.~

And Methos felt it. Quickening. But not Silas’s or Kronos’s. His own. Returning to him, making him whole… ~No!~ Methos screamed through the link, but it was too late. The last of his shattered essence came through, restoring him to his old strength. Then the connection was severed.

Methos stood, gasping. Whole, now, he felt the last of Silas’s energy settling into his body with all the peacefulness of a feather slowly drifting down to earth, a sensation he hadn’t felt in more than two hundred years. It was too much. Methos fell to his knees, unable to process everything that had just happened. Caspian was dead. Kronos was dead. Silas was dead too, by his own hand. And he…he had lived. Lived, and been rejected yet again, found too unworthy even to touch the bright essence that was MacLeod… “Damn you, Cassie!” Methos cried. “Is *this* what you meant by a happy ending? You could have told me that this is the way it would be. Could have let me prepare…” A warm sticky wetness touched his knees, soaking into his pant legs. Methos knew without looking that it was Silas’s blood. He began to cry, great wracking heaves of sobs that shook his entire frame. “Oh, god help me, I killed Silas,” he sobbed. “I *liked* Silas…”

A shadow darted across the wall, a shadow bearing Silas’s abandoned axe. “And now I’m supposed to forgive you?” Cassandra screeched. She lifted the axe over Methos’s head.

Shaking, rejected, half blinded by grief, Methos made no move to stop her. But as Cassandra struggled to get a grip on the gore-covered axe, another voice rang out. “Cassandra,” it said harshly. “Stop.”

MacLeod. Both Methos and Cassandra turned their heads to look at him. The Highlander was a mess—bloody, wet, clothes torn and a huge unhealed cut gaping from the middle of his chest. But the air of command in his voice was unmistakable. Cassandra, sobbing almost as hard as Methos, let the axe drop. It hit the concrete floor with a chiming ring. “You want him to live?” she demanded incredulously.

“Yes. I want him to live,” Duncan answered, and Methos’s sobs redoubled. Cassandra shook her head wildly, moving once again to lift the axe—and this time, MacLeod’s shout came with all the force of a bullhorn. “CASSANDRA! I WANT HIM TO LIVE!!”

She left the axe where it was and made her way weeping from the room. Methos surrendered himself to his grief.

***

He would never know exactly how long he lay there. It was long enough for the blood around his knees to congeal into a sticky blob, long enough for Duncan to pick himself up and leave. Methos listened to the Highlander’s footsteps die away into the distance and decided to stay right where he was, pressing his face against a mercifully blood-free patch of floor. The cement felt cool and rough against his skin; Methos ignored the roughness and embraced the cold. The chilly floor soothed his heated forehead, and for the moment, that was all he cared it about. It might be all he cared about ever again.

Then, from out of the deathly quiet, there came a sound. Footsteps and a cane, moving in a limping rhythm. They came to rest a few feet behind Methos’s left shoulder. Methos stayed where he was, rooted to the cold concrete. His every sense strained toward the spot where he knew Joe was standing, but somehow he couldn’t summon the strength to lift his head and look at him. At long last, Joe spoke. “You know, I had a speech all planned,” he said.

Of all the things he had expected Joe to say at that moment, this was the last. Methos furrowed his brow. “You did?” 

“I did,” Joe answered calmly. “All about love and stupidity and second chances. It was a good speech, too. I worked hard on it. I was looking forward to delivering it to you.” The mortal paused. “There’s just one problem.”

Methos breathed in sharply. “And just what’s that, Joe?”

“Now that I’m here, I can’t remember a single damned word.” Joe took a slow step forward. “Because all I can think about is kissing you, instead.” 

There could be no help for it. Tired as he was, Methos forced his head to turn, and blinked until his gritty, watering eyes cleared enough to focus on Joe. Joe, who was utterly beautiful to him, grey hair shining like an angel’s halo. Methos stared into Joe’s eyes for a long, long moment, searching, seeing nothing but love reflected back at him. Then he took a long look at himself. At Silas’s blood staining his hands and jeans. At the rips and tears in his sweatshirt. At the dirty water and god-knew-what-else clinging to every other inch of his skin. Methos felt a terrible, desperate, completely humorless chuckle bubble up from his abused chest through his raw throat. “Masochist,” he said. 

For a moment Joe looked startled. Then he smiled. “Yeah, well, I guess you ought to know,” he said. “Kiss me anyway.” 

Tears filling his eyes, knowing he should object but not having the strength to, Methos tilted up his face. It was, by far, the sweetest kiss of Methos’s life…and given that he’d already had the privilege of kissing Joe Dawson several million times, that was really saying something. Methos put his hands on Joe’s hips, drinking in his warmth, his strength…until Joe gently pulled back. He brushed one more kiss over Methos’s filthy forehead, then pulled him insistently to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

They both took deep breaths the moment they escaped the base, gulping in the sweet night air. Joe guided Methos to what had to be the second most beautiful sight on the planet, a rental car with a full tank of gas. Joe carefully buckled Methos into the passenger’s seat before he got behind the wheel. He gave Methos a worried look. “You still with me?”

“Still with you.”

“Not about to forget the last decade or start babbling about falling of the earth?”

“I think I’ve already fallen,” Methos murmured. Joe made a sharp sound of displeasure. Methos looked at him, saw the worry, and softened. “I’m all right, Joe. I’m not having a problem absorbing Silas’s Quickening.” Rueful laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever have that sort of problem again.”

“Uh-huh.” Joe looked extremely skeptical. “Then why are you shaking like a leaf?”

“It’s not the Quickening, Joe. It’s…” 

Methos looked down at the blood clinging to his knuckles. Joe didn’t wait for him to finish. “Yeah. I understand,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get you away from here.” He started to turn the key. 

Methos stopped him. “Wait,” he said tiredly. “We can’t just leave. Kronos’s virus is still in the lab. If someone finds it…”

“It’s okay,” Joe answered. “I already called HQ. The Watchers can muster some very impressive resources, when they have to. We’ll have a biohazard crew on the premises within the hour.”

“The monkeys will have to be destroyed.” 

“I know. It’ll be taken care of. The Watchers are used to unpleasant jobs.” Joe shot Methos an awkward, sidelong glance. “We’ll handle disposing of the bodies, as well.”

Oh, god. Kronos and Silas. Somehow Methos hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize that something would have to be done about them, too. “What will happen to them?”

Joe looked unhappy. “You already know the answer to that, Methos. The Watchers follow strict procedures whenever an Immortal has no close friends or family to pay for his burial. Silas and Kronos will be cremated. Caspian, too. One of our agents recovered his body from the bridge last night.” Joe was silent for a long moment. Then: “I can see to it that you get the ashes, if you want.”

It was such a gesture of unremitting generosity and understanding that once again Methos felt his eyes begin to overflow. He nodded tearfully, inwardly marveling that his body still had any tears to shed. Joe patted his hand like a child. “Come on,” he said, starting the car. “Let’s get the hell away from here.” 

They drove for several miles before Joe pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motor inn. By the time Joe had turned off the ignition Methos was once again able to stand on his own two feet, even if his balance was still a bit precarious. Arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, he followed Joe to their room, standing shivering while the mortal unlocked the door. Once inside, Methos stood awkwardly by the door, feeling much too filthy to move. Joe gave him an understanding look and took him by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “The bathroom’s this way.”

Clumsily, trying to put his grimy boots on as little of the carpet as possible, Methos followed. Joe leaned into the shower to get the hot water started, and then he started in on Methos, gently-but-firmly tugging Methos’s filthy sweatshirt up over his head. Methos let him remove it, but when the Joe reached for the soaked t-shirt underneath Methos blocked his hands. “Joe, it’s really not like before, with Kristin’s Quickening,” he said, suddenly feeling as awkward as an adolescent. “I can manage for myself.”

“Yeah. Of course you can. I just need to make sure you’re really all in one piece,” Joe answered. “Humor me.” Methos nodded. Joe removed the t-shirt, running brief, wondering fingers over Methos’s chest and shoulders, then stepped back and patted the bathroom counter. “Hop up.” 

Frowning, uncertain why Joe wanted him on the counter, Methos did as he was asked. The mystery didn’t last long. Joe sat down on the edge of the toilet, pulling Methos’s feet into his lap so he could untie Methos’s sodden cotton laces. “At least the laces didn’t melt this time,” Methos joked feebly.

“No,” Joe agreed soberly, carefully maneuvering the boots off of Methos’s feet. Methos’s water-logged socks quickly followed, and then Joe was cradling his bare, damp-swollen feet in his lap as if they were the most precious things in the world. He touched one set of toes with reverent fingers, sending a shiver through Methos’s entire body. For several long moments, silence reigned. Then Joe looked up, tears glimmering wetly in his eyes. “You lived,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Methos whispered back. 

“Thank you,” Joe said humbly.

There was only one thing Methos could do in response, so he did it: he jumped off the counter, pulled Joe into his arms and kissed him, so hard that the room began to spin. They kept kissing as the now very hot shower started filling the room with steam, kept kissing as Joe abandoned his shirt and Methos kicked away his filthy jeans, kept kissing even as Methos grabbed a miniature bottle of hotel shampoo off the counter and Joe clumsily unwrapped a tiny bar of soap. The small confines of the motel shower gave them some trouble: it was barely large enough for one man to stand in comfortably, let alone a couple, one half of whom was legless and really needed to sit. But Joe solved that problem, too. He simply kept on his legs and pants and stood outside, bracing himself with his cane so he could lean in and soap Methos thoroughly with one hand, kissing all the time. It was the single most awkward feat they’d ever attempted as a couple, and at first Methos was terrified that Joe would trip on the slippery floor. But Joe’s footing held, and before long Methos was too carried away to worry about anything at all. Joe’s kisses felt like a blessing, his soapy fingers a benediction. He touched Methos so gently, washing away every trace of the last nightmare days. And all the while, his hungry, kissing mouth kept assuring Methos that he really was wanted, needed, loved. Methos stood it for as long as he could, then sagged against the shower wall, much too breathless to continue. “Oh, Joe,” he said softly. “Joe…”

Joe didn’t answer. But he carefully twisted the shower head to rinse the last of the soap from Methos’s skin, and then he turned the water off altogether and reached for a towel. Gently, tenderly, Joe dried Methos off, then led him out of the bathroom. He let Methos stand in front of the bed for a minute, simply looking at him, drinking the fact of his presence in. Then they were kissing again, and Methos was finally helping Joe out of his own soaking pants and into the smooth clean sheets. 

They tangled together beneath the blankets, touching and kissing and stroking away each other’s goose bumps. Methos’s own desire felt completely inconsequential compared with the pleasure of touching Joe, feeling his skin under his hands. Even when Joe gently pushed Methos back into the pillows so he could slide down the bed and take Methos’s cock into his mouth, it was the feel of Joe’s soft gray hair under his fingertips that Methos focused on, not the undeniable pleasures caused by the hot warm mouth. Joe loved him for what seemed a timeless time, and when Methos’s thighs finally started to shake with the tell-tale trembling of his impending release Joe pulled away. “You lived,” the mortal said again, and this time the tears weren’t just in his eyes. They were flowing down Joe’s cheeks, leaving shiny trails that disappeared into his beard. “You’re really here with me. I didn’t want to hope...”

Methos sat up and pulled Joe into his arms, urging him to trade places with him, laying him back on the bed so he could cover the mortal’s body with his own. Joe was right. He had lived. Nothing else mattered now, not Silas, not Cassandra, not even the completely unbelievable fact that MacLeod had seen every blemish on his soul and still wanted him to live. He was here, alive and whole and once again lying within the warm circle of this magnificent man’s love…and now that he was, he never wanted to leave. He gently licked the tears trails away, then watched in reverence as Joe arched his head back into the pillow, biting down on his lip as his cock pulsed against Methos’s with nearly painful need. “Methos,” he said urgently. “Need you…oh god, how I need you. Please…”

“Yes.” Despite his exhaustion, Methos started rubbing against his lover in sweet slow waves, savoring every crest and pulse of sensation. Joe groaned as if something inside him was breaking beyond repair, grabbing Methos’s shoulders in a death grip as his pleasure built. He climaxed with a sob, fingers squeezing hard into Methos’s muscles. But somehow, he managed to keep his fingernails from cutting into Methos’s skin, and the love evident in that self-restraint was all the simulation Methos needed. He followed two scant heartbeats later, thrusting desperately through the hot wet slickness Joe’s climax had left, and then he collapsed over Joe’s body, completely spent. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. A few moments later they were both asleep.

**~End Joe and Methos~**


	9. Methos and Joe

**Methos and Joe**

“My love, I returned from travel and sorrow  
to your voice, to your hand flying on the guitar  
to the fire interrupting the autumn with kisses  
to the night circling through the sky…  
I cannot give up your love, not without dying.  
So: play the waltz of the tranquil moon,  
the barcarole, on the fluid guitar,  
till my head lolls, dreaming:  
for all my life’s sleeplessness has woven  
this shelter in the grove where your hand lives and flies,  
watching over the night of this sleeping traveler.”  
~Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet Number 80, as translated by Stephen Tapscott

“Come to my bedside, and let there be sharing  
Uncounterfeitable sign of your caring  
I will be gentle, you know that I can  
For you I will be a most singular man…  
For I love you in a thousand ways  
And not for this alone  
But your lovin’ is the sweetest lovin’  
I have ever known.”  
~Spider Robinson, “Come To My Bedside”

Methos’s sleep was fractious, full of tossing and turning and nightmares filled with the sound of shrieking monkeys. Several times he half-woke to reach desperately across the bed and grab Joe’s arm. Each time he felt Joe grab back with equal fervor, and then Joe would curl around him and begin to sing, quietly lulling him back to sleep. Sometime around midnight, the repeated comforting finally took effect: the nightmares subsided and Methos was able to relax at last. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

The room was bright with afternoon sunshine when he finally woke up for good, disturbed by the sound of the front door opening and a hushed babble of French. He opened his eyes to see Joe backing into the room with a laden tray. Room service, it seemed, had arrived. “Well, look who’s awake!” Joe said cheerfully, putting the tray on the bed. “I was hoping you’d be up soon. Didn’t want to eat all this myself.” He sat down next to the tray.

No food on earth had ever smelled quite so good. Methos sat up, eyeing the covered plates hungrily. “What did you get?” he asked.

“Lunch for me, breakfast for you. I wasn’t sure what you’d want so I got a variety,” Joe answered. With a flourish, he started lifting lids, revealing a mouth-watering array of eggs and pastry. Methos’s stomach gave an audible grumble. Joe smirked and handed him a plate liberally laden with fluffy scrambled eggs. Methos tore into it. “I didn’t hear you call room service,” he said between mouthfuls.

“I’m not surprised. You didn’t hear the phone ring, either. Or wake up when I went out.”

“You went out?”

“Just for a few hours. I left a note on the bathroom mirror in case you woke up while I was gone, but you were still asleep when I got back.” Joe looked apologetic. “I didn’t want to leave you, but it seemed like you really were just asleep—no fever, no shaking. And there were a few things I had to do, so…”

Methos nodded. Things like overseeing a Watcher body disposal squad, no doubt. And arranging for three sets of Immortal ashes to be released. Appetite suddenly gone, Methos pushed his plate away. “It’s all right, Joe,” he said. “I understand. And you were right. I was just sleeping.” He looked bleakly down at the cheerful hotel bedspread. “No coma, no fever, no chills. I seem to be back to my old self.”

“Everything still okay in your head? Memories all still clear?”

“Almost too clear,” Methos murmured. Joe looked at him sadly, sympathy plain. Methos cleared his throat; it was time to change the subject, before the memories became clearer still and Methos started crying like an infant. “Who called?”

“Hmmm?”

“You said the phone rang. Who called? I didn’t think anyone knew we were here.”

“Oh.” Joe looked ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. “It was Watcher business, mostly. I gave HQ this number when I reported in. The leader of them team overseeing the cleansing of New Camelot called to tell me that Kronos’s virus has been contained. Not destroyed, not yet…that’s going to take a lot more research. But we’re working on it.” 

Methos nodded. Tempting as the thought of merely flinging the vials into the fire was, it was going to take more than that to destroy the virus safely. He was glad that the Watchers were taking the time to do the job properly. Joe looked more uncomfortable still. “And then Mac called on my cell. He wants to see you, as soon as you’re back on your feet.”

Uh-oh. “And what did you tell him?” 

“What do you think? I said you were completely worn out from exhaustion and grief, and that I wasn’t going to let you out of my sight any time soon. And then, just for good measure, I told him that if he thought I was going to let him lead Cassandra to you so she could take your head, he’d better think again.” 

Methos blinked, startled by the protectiveness he heard in Joe’s voice. Thank heavens that it seemed to be coming from love rather than jealousy—but then, Joe had never really been jealous of Duncan, had he? Just pitifully unconvinced of his own worth, and trying to do what was best for everyone involved… “And what did Duncan say to that?”

Joe made a sour face. “He told me not to worry about Cassandra; she’d already left the country, Mac drove her to the airport himself. Which is true, so far as it goes. One of my other phone calls this morning was from our field agent at the airport, and he confirmed that Mac dropped Cassandra there about seven thirty. The thing was, nobody actually saw her get on a plane. The last we saw she was talking to some teenage girl in the terminal, and then they both disappeared.” 

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. Vanished without a trace,” Joe nodded. “I told Mac that, and he didn’t seem too worried. He thinks she’s gone for good. But—” Joe’s look of grim determination returned. “I told him the two of you would be meeting on Holy Ground anyway, just in case.”

Methos felt a tide of warmth crash through him. Joe really was trying to keep him safe. “Sounds like you thought of everything.”

“Yeah. I guess I did.” Joe suddenly looked sad. “I thought of something else, too. I suppose now’s as good a time to show you as any.” He reached down to the floor, hauling up an unfamiliar carry-on bag. “Open it.”

Curiously, Methos did. Inside the bag was a collection of brand new Methos-sized clothing—t-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans. And at the very bottom of the bag, hidden underneath the clothes, was a passport. Methos lifted it up and opened the cover. His own face stared back at him, proclaiming to the world that he was a Canadian citizen by the name of “Robert Smith, Junior”. Methos closed it, and saw Joe’s now-carefully impassive face. “How…”

“You can’t Watch Immortals for twenty years without picking up a few tricks,” Joe answered. “Let’s just say I knew who to call. I’m sorry about the name. It was the best I could come up with on three hours sleep. Is the work up to scratch?” Methos nodded. “Well, that’s good,” Joe said, and Methos noticed that he was suddenly looking anywhere but Methos’s face. “You won’t have any problems at the airport then.”

Heavy silence. Methos looked at the carryon, wondering what to say. He settled on the most obvious. “You knew I was going to leave.”

“Let’s just say I made an educated guess.”

“Joe…”

“It’s okay, Methos. Believe it or not, this time I actually understand,” Joe answered. “I know you now, you see. I know that whenever too much has happened to you in too short a time, you need some time away to make sense of it. And this time, you also have a job to do. You’re going to take their ashes home, aren’t you?” Wordlessly, Methos nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Joe said. “I double checked the arrangements—the ashes will be available late this afternoon. You can pick them up as soon as you’re done talking to Mac.” He gave an unhappy shrug. “That way you can leave on the last flight out tonight.”

Methos took one look at Joe’s stiff, determined shoulders and carefully moved the dishes out of the way, then scooted down the bed so he could place a kiss on Joe’s shoulder. “You love me,” he said solemnly.

Joe gave a soft, completely mirthless chuckle. “You just figured that out?”

“No.” Methos shook his head. “If I had any doubts…and I did, after the way you pushed me away in Seacouver…they vanished the moment I realized you’d flown halfway around the world and faced down Kronos just to talk to me. But it still surprises me a little. Especially in moments like these, when you go and do something like this.” He gently touched Joe’s arm. “I’m sorry, Joe.”

“For what? For needing to bury your family? You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“For leaving you. Again.” Firmly, resolutely, Methos pulled on Joe’s shoulders until the mortal had turned around and lifted his eyes to face him. “It seems like I’ve spent this entire relationship walking away from you, for one reason or another. And yet you still keep on loving me anyway. Enough to care for me when I’m here, and enough to let me go when you think I need to leave. Why?”

“I’ve always loved you enough to let you go, Methos,” Joe said throatily. “But there is a difference this time.”

“And what is that?”

“*This* time, I know for sure you’re coming back,” Joe answered. “And when you do…”

“Yes?”

“When you do, I’m finally going to stop loving you enough to let you go and start loving you enough to hang on to you instead,” Joe answered. He raised a hand to touch Methos’s cheek. “So go,” Joe said huskily. “Go bury your brothers, do your grieving, do whatever else you need to do to lay the past to rest. I’ll be in Paris, waiting, for however long it takes. And then you and I are going to be together—and I mean *together.* No more hiding, no more games. We’re going to tell the world we’re in love, Methos. And I’m never, ever letting you walk away again.”

Methos covered the hand on his cheek with his own, pressing it close, feeling the warmth. He pulled Joe in for a needy kiss, which the mortal obliged by giving. Then Joe wrapped him tightly in his arms. “Just come back this time,” he said. “Just come back.”

“You know I will.”

***

It was very strange, feeling MacLeod’s buzz and not knowing instantly that it was MacLeod. Standing in the cemetery outside the Elysium church, Methos watched Duncan’s tall figure approach, and he felt nothing out of the ordinary. The Highlander could have been any other Immortal in the world. Except he wasn’t, was he? He was the one Immortal in history who had seen into the very essence of Methos’s soul. It made Methos feel uncomfortably naked, and as Duncan started making his way through the gravestones he felt an irrational urge to bolt. But Joe wanted him to make a clean break with the past, to do everything he needed to go back to him with an untainted heart. And making peace with MacLeod was part of that. A big part. Methos took a deep breath and straightened his spine. “MacLeod,” he said.

“Methos.” 

“Joe said you said wanted to see me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Duncan nodded, and lifted an arm to indicate the cemetery. “Shall we walk?” 

They started making slow circuits around the graveyard, postures tight and uncomfortable as they braced themselves against the chilly air. Methos braced himself for some extremely uncomfortable questions as well. There were bound to be things in his past that Duncan would want to know more about, now that Methos’s entire existence had been rendered an open book. But much to Methos’s surprise, the Highlander only seemed interested in the events of the last few weeks. Had Methos been the one to set the fire that interrupted Duncan’s fight with Kronos in Seacouver? Had Methos known all along that Silas and Caspian were still alive? And had he really been the one who dropped that matchbook in Caspian’s cell? Methos did his best to answer everything honestly, and by the time they’d finished their first circuit of the cemetery MacLeod was shaking his head. “You really did set the whole thing up, then,” he said. “Right down to sending me after the bomb. You knew Kronos would come after Cassandra, and you let him because you knew I’d come after her. You couldn’t kill him, but you hoped I could.”

Methos restrained an impolite snort. MacLeod really was giving him way too much credit. The truth was, he’d been just as surprised by Cassandra’s kidnapping as MacLeod. Then again…had he? Maybe a part of him had known all along that the bomb was Kronos’s way of testing his loyalties, and gone along with it because he knew it would bring everything to a close. Sometimes, Methos’s mind was as mysterious to himself as it was to everyone else. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Duncan repeated with a frustrated sigh. “Methos, you *had* to have known that Kronos would come for you one day. You must have made some kind of plan.”

“Oh, you think so, do you,” Methos responded tartly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, MacLeod. From the moment Kronos first planted that dagger into my heart in Seacouver, I was more or less winging it.” Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Yes, MacLeod, really. I am not all knowing or all seeing, you know. I’m just old. And I’m just as capable of self-delusion as the next man.” He stared gloomily at the horizon. “The consequences of Kronos finding me again were…unthinkable. So I tried not to think about them.”

“You could have killed him.”

“Could I?”

“I know you couldn’t do it in Seacouver, not after our Quickenings became so…so tangled. But before? In the last decade, in the last century? Yes, Methos. You could have.”

A soft ache of grief rekindled someplace deep within Methos’s chest. “I wanted to,” he confessed quietly. “But…we were brothers. In arms, in blood, in everything except birth. If I judged him worthy to die, then I judged myself the same way. And…I wanted to live.” He paused for a moment, weighing the truth of his next words in his own heart, and when he said them aloud he was startled to discover that they were once again true. “I still do.”

“I’m glad,” Duncan answered. There was profound understanding in the Highlander’s eyes, and Methos realized with a shock that maybe there was a reason why MacLeod had only been asking him about unimportant details so far. The big question, the *why* of it all, had already been answered. MacLeod knew exactly how badly Methos had craved his own death, how he’d arranged the past few weeks to ensure it. Methos looked away uncomfortably, and they walked on, both lost in their own thoughts. Then Duncan said: “Methos?”

“Yes, MacLeod?”

“What about Cassandra?”

Methos sighed. He should have known that MacLeod would still be thinking of her. “One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod. One of a thousand regrets,” he said, and started to walk away: out through the lonely graveyard, pulling his coat tighter against the dark chill wind. Out of the corner of his eye, Methos thought he saw Duncan start to leave, too, heading in the opposite direction, and Methos was relieved. It was as good a place as any for the conversation to end, with no more painful explanations given or sought. But suddenly the wind was carrying more words to him, words that were impossible to ignore. “And what about Joe? Is he one of a thousand regrets, too?” 

Methos halted in mid-step. Slowly, he turned to find that Duncan hadn’t moved at all. He was standing firm just a few paces inside the graveyard, long black coat whipping a tombstone like something out of a very dramatic western. His soft brown eyes were brimming with emotions. “Joe isn’t a regret, he’s my salvation,” Methos answered quietly. “You know, then. I was wondering if you did.”

Duncan gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Oh, yes. I know.” 

“Because of the way we were connected during the Quickenings?”

“How else? It’s pretty damn obvious that neither you nor Joe were ever going to tell me any other way,” Duncan answered bitterly. “Methos, we were linked. I still don’t entirely understand why or how, but for a moment, we were one. I felt your feelings, thought your thoughts. And pretty much every single one of them was about Joe.” Duncan shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. “You thought you were dying. That first moment when we were linked, you thought you were dying…if not about to lose your head, then about to lose your memories, die in every way that matters. And yet the only thing on your mind—the only thing at all—was Joe. How much you loved him, how bad you felt for letting him down. My god, Methos. The things you felt…”

Duncan broke off. Methos hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should just let it go, but he couldn’t. “Yes, Highlander?” he prompted curiously. “What did I feel?”

“There’s no way I can describe it,” Duncan answered honestly. “I don’t think I’ve experienced anything like it before. The closest I’ve ever come to feeling that way was with Tessa, and even then I’m not sure it really compares…” A look of deep hurt flashed into the Scottish eyes. “I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours wondering why I don’t hate you.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you did.”

“No, it wouldn’t, would it? I can finally see that, now,” Duncan said. “Getting me to hate you was always a part of your plan. It was even before Kronos came. All the fights we had in Seacouver, all the bickering…you always wanted me to hate you enough to take your head, if you decided that you needed me to. And hiding the truth about you and Joe was your trump card, wasn’t it? Part of you always planned to tell me eventually, when the moment was right. When the day came that you honestly couldn’t stand belonging to me a moment more, and I was so on edge that I wouldn’t have held back…” Duncan’s hands clenched inside his pockets. “And the true hell of it is, it probably would have worked. I might very well have taken your head when I found out. And not because you hurt *me*, by letting me think we had a chance when we didn’t. Because you were using me to hurt *him*, and that…” Duncan took a shaky breath. “That would have been unimaginable. Using me to hurt Joe would have been unimaginable.”

Methos closed his eyes. The pain in Duncan’s voice was so obvious, so hard to hear—yes, he should have realized that’s what would hurt Duncan the most. Not his own pain, but the knowledge that he had been an instrument to hurt someone else he loved. What could Methos do? What could he possibly say to even begin to make amends? “Highlander, I…”

“No. Don’t say anything. It’s all right,” Duncan answered, although his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “It’s all right. Really. Because I understand it now. We were linked, and I saw why you did it all…why you did everything, from not telling me about Joe to seducing me in Seacouver to making me chase after you and Kronos like a madman. And it wasn’t for any of the reasons I’d originally thought. It wasn’t because you were playing some kind of sadistic game, or trying to punish me for being the one who was strong enough to take you. It was just because you were hurt and trapped and very, very tired and afraid, and you honestly didn’t know what else to do to be free…”

Duncan’s voice trailed off into a whisper. Methos’s eye ached with unshed of tears of his own. “Is that why you did it, then?” he asked brokenly. “Is that why you told Cassandra you wanted me to live? Because you finally understood me and forgave? I wondered…”

“No.”

“Then *why*?”

“Because I saw you,” Duncan said huskily. “The real you, the deep you, the one not even you has ever dared to look at too closely, because you’re too afraid of what you’d see. And he…he’s inexpressible, Methos. So strong, so weak. So old, so young. So violent, so loving…”

“So human,” Methos finished bitterly.

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, nodding. “So human. And so god damn beautiful, I almost broke apart, just from the looking…” Methos arched his eyebrows in surprise. Duncan made a helpless gesture with his hand. “You really don’t know, do you? Don’t know what you are. But *I* know. I saw it, felt it, touched it with my heart. And I knew I couldn’t let that die.” His shoulders slumped. “If Cassandra hadn’t listened…if she’d gone ahead and taken your head…I think I would have had to take hers, just to keep from losing you for good. Don’t you dare tell anyone I said that; I’m not proud of what it says about me. But it’s true.”

Duncan lapsed back into silence. Methos gently touched his arm. “Maybe you should be proud,” he said quietly. “Remember. I saw you, as well.”

Duncan’s lip twisted. “Did you?”

“Oh, yes.” Methos nodded. “And you were…inexpressible, too. Bright. Shining. Heroic. Pure.” He gave a feeble smile of his own. “Completely unlike me.”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, and he sounded regretful. “Completely unlike you.” He swallowed, and when he looked at Methos there was no anger, only resignation. “We really don’t belong together, do we? Not now, and maybe not ever. I know I said it before, but I really know it now. We’re just too different.”

“Yes.”

“But you and Joe…” Duncan broke off, and Methos wondered what he had been about to say. However, the Highlander was quiet for several moments, and when he spoke again it appeared to be about a completely different topic. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? Soon. And on your own.”

Methos blinked. “Still reading my mind, Highlander?”

“No. Not really,” Duncan answered. “I passed your car on the way in, saw the luggage piled in the backseat. But I think I would have known you were going anyway.” Duncan cleared his throat. “Are you coming back?”

“Yes.”

“To *him*?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” Duncan looked into the distance for a long time. When he looked back, his voice was rueful. “You’re going to make him miserable, you know.”

“Excuse me??”

“You heard me,” Duncan said. “You’re not the easiest person in the world to live with, Methos. You snore. You never remember to put the cap back on the toothpaste after you use it, and you’re always squeezing the tube right from the middle. You stay up all night reading and fall asleep with the lights still on. You get weird midnight cravings for sea urchins and anchovies…” Duncan stopped there, because Methos had finally figured out that the Highlander was teasing, and was so relieved at the change of mood that he’d started laughing hard enough to make his sides ache. Duncan, looking very relieved himself, waited in satisfaction until Methos’s hilarity subsided. Then he sobered. “Seriously, Methos. If Joe feels for you even a tenth of what you feel for him, he’s going to be in for a hell of time. Have you thought about everything he’s going to have to give up to be with you?”

“I have,” Methos answered, matching Duncan’s serious tone. “And so has Joe. He seems to think it’s worth it. I’ve given up trying to argue.” Duncan nodded, looking sad. Methos chose his next words very carefully. “It would be very hard on him, though, if one of the things he had to give up was you.”

Duncan looked distant. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It would be hard on me, too. I just…well, it’s going to take me a while to get used to everything, you know?”

“Highlander…”

“No, Methos. Don’t say anything more. Let’s just leave it there, shall we?” Duncan straightened his coat. “Tell Joe…well. Tell him that I’m sorry it was me that came between you. He’s my friend, maybe the best mortal friend I ever had. Tell him that hurting him was the last thing I ever wanted to do. Make sure he knows, okay?”

Very moved, Methos stepped closer, near enough to feel the Highlander’s warmth despite the chill air. He thought about the last time they had been this close: in the parking lot of the Second Chance, just before he’d thrown Duncan up against his SUV. Everything felt so different, now. There was no anger. No Quickening-laced attraction, either—but in its place was appreciation and an undeniable tenderness. Methos wanted to give Duncan something, and gave the only thing he was free to—reassurance that Joe didn’t think the less of him. “I’ll tell him,” he said. “But I know he already knows.”

The words hit home. “Good,” Duncan said. “I’m glad.” He looked down at Methos, expression dark and intense, and for a moment Methos though he was about to be kissed…but Duncan moved no closer, and after a moment more he stepped back. “So I guess this is goodbye,” he said. “I hope…I hope I’ll see you again.” Pause. “With Joe.”

“You can count on it,” Methos answered. Duncan nodded and began to walk away. Methos watched until he had almost reached the cemetery gates, then he called out after him. “Highlander!” Startled, Duncan turned. “Beautiful as that noble soul of yours may be, if it leads you into doing something stupidly heroic and losing your head before I get back, I’m going to be extremely put out. You be careful, do you understand me? Or I’ll haunt you for the rest of eternity.”

It was a bit hard to tell at this distance, but Methos thought Duncan looked puzzled. “Isn’t that impossible?” he called. “I thought it was the dead’s job to haunt the living.”

“For you I’ll find a way!” Methos shouted back, and felt warmed all over when he heard Duncan’s chuckle. He softened. “Be well, Highlander.”

“You too, Methos.” There was a brief silence before Duncan said, “You really are the most extraordinary man.” And then he was gone.

Methos waited until he heard the Citroen’s engine start and the car drive away. Then he left as well.

***

It was a long journey. By plane, by train, by automobile, by horseback and by foot...Methos used them all to take his brothers home, and with each scattering it felt like he was interring a part of himself, as well. He returned Silas’s ashes to the Ukraine, scattering them over the now-empty pastures where Silas had raised generations of horses. Caspian Methos returned to the central Asian plains where he’d been born, privately marveling that modern irrigation had transformed what had once been a barren desert into a crop of living green. Methos traveled until he found a particularly plentiful wheat field, where he scattered Caspian’s ashes. And then whispered a silent apology to the plants. 

Deciding where to take Kronos was the hardest, but really, there could only be one choice. Methos flew to India and the banks of the river Ganges, where the rites of death and rebirth had been observed for more years than even Methos had drawn breath. There he performed the 13-day-ritual necessary to insure the soul of the departed went to the realm of the ancestors, instead of staying amongst the living to torment them as a hungry ghost. When the ceremony was at last complete, Methos let the Ganges carry Kronos’s ashes away and then submerged himself. He emerged with a new sense of strength and peace, but also with a nagging feeling of incompletion: despite all the ritual, there was still something he had to do before he could return to Joe. For the life of him, Methos couldn’t figure out what that was. But he knew enough to take the feelings seriously…and he also knew that there was one person on earth who would have the answer he sought. Methos boarded a plane to Katmandu.

Cassie’s house was, more or less, exactly as Methos had left it. It still bore the same peeling paint, and had the same rusting metal panels on the roof. But the front yard had undergone a metamorphosis. Instead of the tangle of weeds Methos remembered, the entire yard had been cleared and fenced, obviously in preparation for some kind of a garden. When he reached it, a woman was working in the soil, kneeling with her back to Methos as she planted seeds. Her hair was pinned up and covered with a cloth, but even without being able to see its color Methos knew she wasn’t Cassie. This woman was considerably taller, and much more mature—quite beautifully, stunningly mature, Methos noted, seeing the masses of ripe curves the women’s close fitting Western dress exposed. “Pardon me,” he said in Nepali. “I’m looking for the young lady who used to live here. Perhaps you could tell me if…”

A pair of dark, smoldering eyes lifted to meet his, eyes only slightly less ancient than his own. They held pain, surrender, and frightening familiarity. Methos stumbled backward. “Cassandra?”

The three thousand year old seer rose with all the dignity of an ancient priestess ascending a ritual dais, despite the dirt beneath her nails and the dust clinging to her skirt. “Methos,” she greeted cordially.

In the dazed moments that followed, Methos realized two things. One, Cassandra was actually smiling—at him. Two, they were standing within ten feet of each other, and neither of them was holding a sword. These two miracles were quickly eclipsed by a third: Cassandra crossed the remaining distance between them and offered her hand, pausing only to brush some of the garden soil from her fingers first. “It’s good to see you again, Methos,” she said.

Mind reeling, Methos had just touched his fingers to the seer’s—they felt cool, and very dusty—when he heard the little house’s front door open and close. “Johnboy!” Methos barely had time to make out a blur of striking red hair and freckled skin before he was hit by a hundred pounds of teenage seer, Cassie’s small feet actually leaving the ground as she jumped into Methos’s arms. She clung to him like a limpet, legs wrapping tightly around his waist. “You did it,” she whispered in his ear. 

Startled and very touched, Methos wrapped his arms around the girl and hugged back, clinging just as hard. “Yes. I really think I did,” he said solemnly, and when Cassie touched her face to his he was startled to feel warm wetness streaking down the girl’s cheeks. “Why the tears, Little Wise One? You must have known all along the way things would turn out.”

“I *knew*,” Cassie answered. “But knowing didn’t exactly make it easy, these last few weeks. Feeling what you were feeling…knowing I’d already given you all the help I could …” There was a faint throat-clearing sound off to the side. Cassie disentangled herself from Methos with a chagrinned smile, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. “Yes, Sandy, of course,” she said. “Johnboy, we’d better get you inside for some lunch. You haven’t eaten enough to feed a bird since you left Paris; Joe is going to be horrified when he sees you. Fortunately, Sandy’s been cooking for days. We can put on quite the welcome home spread, thanks to her…”

She started pulling him toward the house. Cassandra followed behind them, moving with so much serenity that Methos had the unpleasant feeling that he’d once again managed to fall through the looking glass. “Sandy?” he said dimly.

“That’s what Cassie calls me,” Cassandra answered. She looked ever-so-slightly amused. “I go by ‘Sandra’ now to everyone else. It saves confusion.”

“I see.”

“No, Johnboy, you don’t,” Cassie answered confidently. “But you will. All you need is some explanations. And some *food*.” She patted his shoulder. “Come in,” she said kindly. “Let’s get a roof over your head and some calories in your stomach. It’ll all make sense soon, I promise.”

***

Cassie’s living room was the same hodge-podge of multi-cultural décor that it had always been. Still, everything inside it had been rearranged during Methos’s absence, shifted, somehow, to exist more harmoniously within the space. Was that Cassandra’s doing? Had she really been there long enough to influence the decor? The Immortal seer certainly moved through the house as if she’d lived there all her life, and when she joined Cassie in the kitchen the two worked as smoothly as if they’d been cooking together for decades, not just a few days or weeks. It was strangeness personified, seeing the proud, fiercely modern Cassandra calmly making tea at Cassie’s side. Methos blinked his eyes furiously, half wondering if the image would fade, but no. His eyes appeared to be working perfectly well. “So, I must admit to being confused,” he said. “How did you get to Nepal, Cass…I mean, Sandra?”

The newly-renamed Immortal just smiled to herself and continued the work she was doing. Cassie grinned. “Aren’t you getting tired of that old joke, Johnboy?” she said. “Sandy got here the same way you and I did. On an airplane.”

Methos suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, I didn’t think she came by pack train,” he said. “I suppose my real question is why.”

“You mean, why, out of all the gin-joints in the world, she happened to…”

“Cassie. Stop teasing,” Sandra said gently. “Methos, I’m here because Cassie came and got me.”

“Came and got you?”

“In Bordeaux, after Kronos’s and Silas’s deaths. Cassie met me at the airport and brought me here.”

“But—” Methos’s mind rolled back, trying to remember what Joe had said about Cassandra’s leaving. Yes, there had been some mention of a teenage girl talking to Cassandra just before she disappeared. Methos looked blankly at Cassie. “You came to France?”

“Yes. It turned out that the tuition money you wired me from Seacouver was just enough to buy the tickets. Isn’t it interesting how things work out?” 

“You came to France.”

“Yes.”

“You came to France. And got Cass…and got Sandra to leave with you, just like that?”

“I did recognize the mark of the spirits upon Cassie the moment I saw her,” Sandra said mildly. “I knew instantly that our paths were meant to join. Besides. Cassie can be very…convincing.” The two women shared a secretive smile. “We talked for several hours in the airport lounge, and then we both flew to Katmandu. I’ve been here ever since.”

“May I ask one question, Sandra?”

“Certainly, Methos.”

“Why aren’t you trying to kill me?”

Cassie laughed merrily. Sandra merely smiled serenely. “Many of the things Cassie told me that day in Bordeaux concerned you, Methos. I now understand…well, much more than I did before. About our past and the reasons for it, why things had to happen the way they did. And about your future, too.”

“My future?”

“Yes.” Sandra nodded. “It appears that you’re going to be a part of my old prophecy, Methos. You’re going to help Duncan MacLeod save the world.” And while Methos was still blinking in shock over *that* bit of information, Sandra did something more astonishing still. She reached out an arm to Cassie, who slipped under it and snuggled very closely into Sandra’s side, looking as if there was no place on earth she’d rather be. “And besides,” the Immortal seer continued softly, “I find that I’m not nearly as interested in revenge as I used to be. Somehow, I just don’t have any room left in my heart for anger.”

She smiled down at Cassie, fondly, intimately. Methos’s jaw dropped. “You mean…you two…” Both women nodded, still looking into each other’s eyes. Methos sat his tea cup down with a thump. “I think I’m going to need something a lot stronger than tea,” he announced to the world at large. 

“In the refrigerator,” Cassie said, still looking up at her beloved. “There’s some very fine local beer on the bottom shelf. Sandy and I bought it just for you.” She smirked. “Just promise me you’ll stay away from the yak butter this time.”

***

All in all, it was a very strange, topsy turvy, Twilight Zone-ish kind of a day. It was weird beyond weird for Methos to see Cassie and Sandra acting like a couple—touching each other as they passed, speaking low words Methos wasn’t meant to hear, laughing at each other’s jokes. Cassie’s laughter was light as a breeze and Sandra’s as deep as cello; they made a beautiful music whenever they laughed together, and Methos was startled to realize that he’d never heard Sandra laugh without bitterness before. Not once. Not even within the Horseman’s camp, when she’d thought she’d loved him and they were alone. The realization made him sad, and when the supper hour came and the two women again started working in the kitchen, Methos slipped into the back yard, wanting a few moments to himself. But just as he had reached the porch steps, Sandra joined him. “Cassie has banned me from the kitchen,” she said. “She says she wants to make something special for you with her own hands.”

“With yak butter?”

“Let’s hope not.” The Immortal seer settled down gracefully onto the porch steps, arms clasping her knees as she looked expectantly up at Methos. Feeling very unsure of himself, but not knowing what else to do, Methos sat down at her side. To hide his discomfort, he nodded at the chicken coup at the far end of the practice field. “I see the flock has expanded. There’s about twice as many birds as I remember.”

“My doing.”

“I thought it might be. Cassie always did have something of a love-hate relationship with her chickens.”

“They *do* tend to take out their frustrations on her,” Sandra said with a smile. “They know that she always knows exactly where they hide their eggs, and they peck at her rather mercilessly whenever she tries to gather them.”

“Yes. So I remember,” Methos said. “You manage better?”

“I don’t have Cassie’s talents,” Sandra answered. “I’m afraid that my Gift is strictly limited to the human realm. The chickens have nothing to fear from me. Besides. I’ve discovered that I rather like caring for living things. It brings me peace.” 

“It seems to be working,” Methos said hesitantly. “You look…well, you seem to be very happy.”

“Happier then I’ve been since before my first death,” Sandra answered. Methos winced. Sandra instantly looked apologetic. “Forgive me,” she said. “I wasn’t reproaching you, Methos. I was just trying to express how lucky I feel.” She nodded back at the kitchen, where Cassie was singing an old 1960’s rock song very loudly (and very off key). A look of pure wonder came into Sandra’s ancient eyes. “She knows me, Methos. She knows everything about me—every hurt I’ve ever suffered, every act of violence I’ve every committed. And yet, she loves me anyway.”

“I know,” Methos said quietly. “She did the same thing for me, during my time here. It’s a powerful thing, isn’t it? Being completely known and completely accepted. Much too rare for the likes of us.” Cassandra nodded her agreement, her eyes still on the house. Methos saw the tenderness there, the new softness that hadn’t existed in any of the Cassandras he’d known. He smiled sadly. “You are lucky, you know. I would have stayed here with her too, if I could have. She turned *me* down flat.”

“Only because we both had something better waiting for us later on,” Cassie called from the kitchen, despite the fact that she couldn’t possibly have heard Methos’s words over the racket she’d been making. Methos and Sandra both jumped, then started laughing together at the wonderful weirdness of it all, the first laughter they’d ever truly shared. Cassie appeared in the doorway, regarding them happily as she crossed to stand at Sandra’s side. “And you *do* have something better waiting for you, Johnboy. Or you will have, as soon as you find your way home. Joe is one in a million million.” 

“It’s true, then?” Sandra looked startled. “You’re really in love with that mortal friend of Duncan’s? The…what was the word? The Looker?”

“The Watcher,” Methos answered, suppressing a smile. “And yes. I really am.” Methos touched the tattoo on his wrist regretfully. “Although, if Joe really does take me back when I return, he probably won’t be one much longer. As far as the Watchers and most of the western world is concerned, Adam Pierson is dead. I can’t think of a way to resurrect myself without causing suspicion. And I don’t see how Joe can both work for the Watchers and be with me without somebody catching on.” 

Cassie started to snicker, her eyes dancing with suppressed mirth. Methos rolled his own. “All right, Little Wise One,” he said resignedly. “You may as well tell me why you’re laughing.”

“Because, fortunately for you, your beloved is much smarter than you are.” 

“That’s hardly news, Cassie. Exactly why is that fact causing you so much amusement now?”

“Because Joe’s already got the whole thing worked out, that’s why,” Cassie answered. “You should have asked him about it before you left, Johnboy. Nobody actually saw Adam Pierson die—Mrs. McGillicudy just saw you get stabbed and kidnapped, that’s all. And thanks to Joe’s quick thinking about reassigning Sandy’s Watcher--” Sandra stiffened subtly, and Cassie shot her a guilty look, making Methos wonder if the Immortal seer had ever realized that she’d had her own personal spy before -- “no one who mattered ever saw young Adam in Kronos’s company, either. The Quickenings in Bordeaux weren’t witnessed, Johnboy. The only Watcher alive who knows that Adam Pierson is Immortal is Joe.”

“But—how can I—”

“A few days after you get back, Joe’s going to be working late on Kronos’s papers, the ones the Watchers recovered from the submarine base after the decontamination team gave the all clear,” Cassie answered. “He’s going to be looking through some miscellaneous odds and ends, and he’s going to discover a rental agreement for an isolated storage facility near Seacouver. Naturally, Joe’s going to be horrified by this. What if there’s more virus stored there? Or something else even more terrible to contemplate? So, in true Joe Dawson fashion, he’s going to fly back to the US and visit the storage building immediately. He won’t even bother to tell any of his other colleagues where he’s going first...”

“Let me guess. And he’s going to find Adam Pierson?”

“Yes,” Cassie nodded. “Here’s the basic story Joe’s planning to tell. Kronos found Adam Pierson by accident while he was looking for Methos, much the same way Kalas did. Perhaps Kronos and Kalas were friends. Don’t look at me like that, Johnboy; stranger things have happened, after all. Anyway, Kronos tracked young Adam to Seacouver, where he didn’t kill him after all—just wounded him and took him away. Handcuffed and weak from his injuries, Adam was helpless to stop Kronos from imprisoning him in this storage facility, where he stayed for several months. Probably Kronos had intended to torture him into telling him more about the Watchers, and was only prevented when Duncan MacLeod forced him to leave town; we’ll never know for sure. In any event, Adam was left on his own, miraculously surviving on the small amount of food and water Kronos had left stockpiled, until Joe showed up to save him.” Cassie looked at Methos apologetically. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit through several months of therapy and Watcher psychiatric evaluations before they’ll let you go back to work, but they will, in time. And there’s the added bonus of knowing that, under the circumstances, nobody’s going to find it the least bit strange when Joe takes a special interest in you. Why, he’s even going to take you to see an expensive plastic surgeon to see to your stab scar. An amazing doctor, really; there won’t be any trace of your wound left at all. By the time you’re declared fit to return to duty, it’s not going to surprise anyone that you and Joe have become more than friends. Your psychiatrist will even give your new-found love the credit for your miraculously speedy mental recovery. And, given what you went through for the cause, the Watcher Powers That Be will decide to forget that little matter of you going AWOL after Jacob Galati’s death, too.” Cassie smiled. “You’ll even end up being promoted.”

“I’m still a Watcher, then?” Methos said. Cassie nodded. Methos looked down at his wrist, seeing the familiar symbol blur as the tears sprang into his eyes. “I’m still a Watcher,” he repeated. “I’m still a Watcher.”

“Yes, Johnboy. You and Joe both. For many years to come.” Cassie brushed a quick kiss over the top of his hair, then held out her hand, helping Sandra to her feet. “Come on, you two. Supper’s ready.”

***

They feasted late and long, and when Cassie’s excellent meal was completely devoured they adjourned to the practice field, where Cassie lit a fire in the fire pit. She produced some twigs and a bag of marshmallows—(“Real American ones! I traded some of Mama Du’s foot salve to an American trekker for them last week!”) and the little group proceed to roast the sweets over the fire while they looked up at the stars. To Methos, it was the perfect, if somewhat surreal, ending to what had been a perfectly surreal day. He ate his marshmallows thoughtfully as he looked up at the stars, heart too full to speak. Joe was waiting for him. So, it seemed, was his place in the Watchers. It should have been too good to be true—but he couldn’t doubt Cassie’s words. Not anymore. 

The ladies seemed to understand Methos’s need for quiet. They chattered and laughed quietly amongst themselves, feeding each other from time to time, content to leave him to his own thoughts. Finally, though, Cassie gave a theatrical yawn. “Gosh, I’m tired,” she said. “I think I’ll turn in early. No, no, Sandy, you stay here,” she said, when Sandra moved to join her. “Stay and talk to Johnboy. I know how much you like to stargaze. I’ll be fast asleep in ten minutes; I won’t wake up, no matter how late it is when you make it in. There’s some blankets in the sword chest if you get cold.” 

She gave the female Immortal a quick peck on the cheek and hurried into the house. A moment later, they heard the bedroom door slam emphatically shut. “Well,” Methos said. “That was…graceless.”

“Downright transparent,” Sandra agreed. “She wants us to talk. I suppose we’d better not disappoint her.” Methos nodded. Sandra reached out to him tentatively, touching a gentle finger to Methos’s wrist. “I saw the look on your face when Cassie told you could go back to these…Watchers,” she said, giving the word a twist that told Methos she was not yet entirely comfortable with the concept. “Did it really matter to so much to you? Being one of them?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

“Why? It was just a role that you played.”

“And I suppose you’ve never lost yourself in a role before?” Cassandra gave an expressive shrug, and Methos reflected that no, she probably hadn’t. From slave to priestess to witch in the woods, all the roles Cassandra had ever played had been chosen for her, not by her. She had yet to decide to be anything for herself. Methos sighed, wondering how to explain. “It was a role I loved, Cassandra.”

“Because it kept you safe from other Immortals?”

“Because it kept me safe from myself.” Cassandra arched her eyebrows curiously, and it was Methos’s turn for an expressive shrug. “Despite recent evidence to the contrary, the Watchers are really quite a noble, gentle people, Cassandra. Being amongst them let me concentrate on all the things I liked about myself. Without any of the more frightening aspects ever hatching out.”

“Hmmm.” Cassandra looked disapproving, then let it pass. “I wasn’t all that impressed with them, myself. But then, when Duncan first told me about them in Seacouver, I wouldn’t have been impressed with any person or organization that wasn’t actively trying to help me kill you. Preferably in as gory and over-the-top a way as possible. A small thermo-nuclear device wouldn’t have been too much.” Methos chuckled. Cassandra looked thoughtful. “Strange,” she said, more to herself than to Methos. “It appears that Cassie was right.”

“About what?”

“About you. You *are* incredibly handsome when you’re happy.” 

Methos frowned. It seemed like a very strange turn for the conversation to take. “Cassie said that?”

“She did.” Cassandra shifted closer. “I didn’t believe her, though. I’d never really seen you happy, you see. Well, except when you when you were returning from a raid covered in filth and blood, which is a memory I don’t particularly want to revisit…”

Methos shivered. “Neither do I.”

“No,” Cassandra agreed. “You really don’t, do you. I can finally see that, now.” She edged closer still, shifting her position so they were now sitting face to face, her skirt-covered knees touching Methos’s blue-jeans clad ones. “I think you were right, that day in Duncan’s dojo. I really don’t know you at all.” Her eyes were very grave as she lifted her hand to touch his cheek. 

Methos caught her by the wrist before she could make contact. Even in the dying firelight, it was easy to see the flush that came to her face as he did. “Cassandra,” he said, voice low. “Cassie didn’t leave us alone just to talk, did she.”

“I don’t want to fear you any longer, Methos.”

“Right. And you think seducing me will fix that for you?”

“The memory of your touches have haunted my nightmares long enough, Methos,” Cassandra answered with great dignity. “Wouldn’t it be better to have them be part of pleasant memory instead?” She lowered her voice. “Prove to myself for once and for all that ‘Methos’ and ‘Monster’ are no longer synonyms?”

Methos started to shake his head and pull away—but then he noticed the way Cassandra’s left foot was trembling, symptom of a fear that was just scarcely under control. Methos lifted his hand to touch her hair instead, and felt her whole body shiver with the barely suppressed need to flinch away. He sighed. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he told her. “Go get the blankets.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. Then her head bent submissively as she literally scurried to do his bidding, feet moving in the short, inefficient steps he’d once so painfully taught her to use. Methos shook his head, marveling at the way that particular bit of brain washing had held for more than thirty centuries, at the way some wounds could fester forever without healing. He waited until she returned, then took a blanket from her and spread it on the grass. “Come here,” he said, motioning for her to stand beside him on the blanket, and hesitantly Cassandra did so, shooting several uncomfortable glances back at the house. Despite her apparent bravery, she clearly hadn’t actually expected him to take her up on her offer. Methos could feel the tension in her, every muscle as taught as strung bow. She jumped when he touched her hand. “You really think this is necessary?” he asked. “To get back the peace I stole from you?”

She nodded. Methos sank to his knees, arms spread in surrender. “Then hear me, Cassandra, adopted daughter of Hijad, most favored child of The People,” he said, and saw her flinch again when he started speaking in the ancient dialect of her childhood tribe. “What was taken from you is now returned. You do not need to surrender yourself into my hands to prove your strength. Instead, I surrender myself to you.” He slowly lowered his arms to his sides. “You can do what you want with me, Cassandra. All I ask is that you think about what you really want before you act.”

She was silent for a long time, her body a shadowy silhouette in the dark. Finally, she said: “And if what I really want is to take your head?” 

Methos’s entire body went cold. But he forced himself to stay still. “Then take it,” he said evenly. “The decision is yours.” He shivered. “I just…I just really hope you won’t.”

“Because you want to live?”

“Because there’s a mortal waiting for me in Paris right now, and I promised him I’d come back,” Methos answered. “The thought of disappointing him hurts more than you can possibly imagine. But my days of manipulating you for my own purposes are over, Cassandra. I mean it. If you chose to go for your sword, I will make no move to stop you.” He swallowed, suddenly remembering the violent means he’d once used to teach her that she could make no decision, however small, on her own. “I give you back what you need to choose for yourself. Decide.”

The moments seemed to stretch on forever as Cassandra considered. Then she murmured softly, “Duncan wanted you to live.”

“Duncan isn’t here right now. There’s no one here but us. Decide.”

More silence. Then: “You really *have* changed, haven’t you. I finally begin to see why Duncan had such a hard time making up his mind to kill you.” She lightly cupped his cheek with her hand. “I think I, too, want this you to live.”

The tension left Methos’s body so fast he almost fell over. “Well. That’s a relief,” he joked, and was silenced by her kiss—a soft kiss, close-mouthed and gentle. “Cassandra…”

“Shut up, Methos. You talk too much.” Cassandra dropped down onto the blanket, spreading out on her back, and patted the blanket beside her in invitation. Unsure of just what she intended, Methos joined her rather hesitantly, only to have her snuggle up chastely under his arm. “There’s Cassiopeia,” the seer said, pointing up at the constellation. “She Whose Words Have Impact. Cassie—the Little Wise One inside, I mean—told me that you’d renamed her that. The original Cassiopeia was Immortal, did you know? We crossed paths in Troy.”

“Really?” Methos answered. “I had no idea. If I ever met her, she was using a different name.” And the conversation went on from there, each of them talking about the older Immortals they’d known. Cassandra, it turned out, had some very fond memories of Darius, and they chatted long into the night, sharing funny stories about the priest and his infamous honey mead. Eventually, Cassandra’s voice grew slurred and she dropped her head to Methos’s shoulder, sound asleep. Methos smiled, and closed his eyes as well.

***

They were still on the blanket when the dawn came. Methos woke up to find Cassie’s eyes dancing as she looked down at him. A heavy, warm weight was draped over his lap: Sandra. They must have fallen asleep together. “Come with me,” Cassie said, and when Methos looked in consternation at the six feet of sleeping woman pinning him down, Cassie chuckled at his predicament. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just push her aside and cover her with the blanket. She won’t wake up. She’s a very sound sleeper.”

“She never used to be.”

“Times change, Johnboy. Sandy’s a different person, now, as are you. Now get up! I have some things to talk to you about before she wakes.”

Cassie was right, of course. Sandra merely mumbled a little and curled up on her other side when Methos pushed her away and stood up. Cassie already had an extra blanket in her hands, which she tucked tenderly around her sleeping partner before leading Methos to the Bodhi tree. She sank down into lotus on the grass beneath its shade, and Methos quickly followed suit. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, sending you back to Seacouver when I did,” she said quietly, when they both had settled. “Knowing that Kronos was about to find you, knowing what you were about to go through at his side. I wanted to warn you, give you more preparation than I did, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“You already know, Johnboy. I didn’t tell you more than I did because I already knew I hadn’t.” She shrugged her shoulders sadly. “It’s a strange thing, being born without filters. To me all actions are already set in stone, even my own. I can’t change what I’m going to do later today anymore than you can change what you did yesterday. It’s all already finished. It’s done.” She gave him a tiny smile. “That doesn’t make it easy.”

“And why isn’t it easy?” Methos asked curiously. “If what you say is true, you’ve already witnessed all the tragedies of the world, every injustice, every act of brutality. And yet you somehow seem to manage to go through your days with a serenity the Dali Lama would envy. What should it hurt so much to watch my little play?”

“You haven’t guessed?” Methos shook his head. She smiled sweetly, the long curtain of her hair waving softly over her shoulders. “Because I love you, Johnboy. Enough to commit the very foolish sin of wishing the world was other than it was just so things could be easier for you. I didn’t act on that wish; I couldn’t, it was a physical impossibility. But I wished it anyway. That’s why it hurt so much.” Methos’s face must have reflected his surprise, because Cassie’s smile became blinding. “Don’t look so startled, Johnboy. You’re going to have to get used to it now.”

“Get used to what?”

“Being loved.” She chuckled at his consternation. “Haven’t you noticed? You aren’t in hiding anymore. For the first time since shortly after your first death, there are four people in this world who know exactly who and what you really are…and every single one of us loves you, each in our own ways. Why, even Sandy, who as little as two months ago would have just as cheerfully chopped off your head as looked at you, now trusts you enough to fall asleep in your arms.” Cassie quirked an eyebrow at him. “Doesn’t that tell you something, Johnboy?”

“Yes.” Methos answered humbly. “It tells me that it’s finally time for me to go home.” Cassie nodded her agreement, small chin bobbing emphatically. Methos looked around the yard, at the soft grasses, at the breeze waving through the bodhi tree’s leaves. “Cassie…”

“Yes, Johnboy?”

“Will I make him happy? Is being with me really the best thing for Joe?”

Cassie pelted him with a handful of grass. “Yes!” she answered enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, and yes. You shouldn’t even have to ask.” She grew more serious. “It’s not going to all be rose petals and butterflies, of course. The next two years in particular will have more than their share of loss and regret. But this time, it will be different. This time, neither of you will be going through it alone. You and Joe will be together.” Cassie’s gaze flickered over to Sandra, still sleeping on the other side of the yard. “And that is the finest thing that life can provide. It will make everything else worthwhile. Trust me.”

“I do.” Methos looked at the girl, seeing the deep, passionate love with which she gazed at her sleeping partner, and felt all the doubts he’d had about their relationship begin to ease. At first, the thought of the nineteen-year-old seer finding lasting happiness with the 3,000 year old Immortal had seemed ludicrous, if not downright impossible. But then, where would each of them find a better match? Cassie had already been very good for Sandra, that much was clear. And who else was going to understand Cassie, her unearthly maturity and eerie foreknowledge, than an Immortal who carried some of the same Gift? “Are you happy, Cas?” Methos asked softly.

“Unquestionably.”

“Will it last?”

“For a time,” Cassie answered. “In about ten years I’ll have a silly accident and break my arm. It won’t be serious, but it will be enough to remind Sandra that I’m mortal, and that the security she feels with me is necessarily finite. That will drive her away, for a while.” Cassie gave Methos a sad little shrug. “You know why. Sandy still suffers from that old illusion that giving up something voluntarily is somehow better than having it taken from you. She’d rather leave me than lose me to time.”

Methos nodded. Oh yes, he knew that illusion, had frequently fallen victim to it himself. “Will she come back?”

“Eventually. For a while. We’re going to dance quite a dance for a few decades, with Sandy leaving and then coming back and then getting scared and leaving all over again. But eventually, yes, she will come home to stay.” Cassie looked sad. “The truly ironic thing is that I’m going to outlive her.”

Methos felt a chill. “She’s going to lose her head?”

“In 2036.”

“And you haven’t told her?”

“She’d know it herself, if she was strong enough. Sandy’s a very competent seer, Johnboy. The only reason she hasn’t looked to find out the date of her own death is because she knows she isn’t ready to face it, and I’m not going to force the knowledge on her. It would be a kind of rape, and she’s had more than enough of that in her life already.” 

Methos winced. Yes, Cassandra had certainly had more than enough of that already. But…“But if it would change the way she thinks of you, give you more time together…”

“Johnboy. From the perspective of the true seer, all stories are already written. It will be as it must be...and believe me, despite the ending, *this* story will be glorious. Filled with more joy than most humans get in a hundred lifetimes. Let it be.” Throat choked, Methos nodded. “Besides,” Cassie continued warmly, “It’s not *your* story, beloved. You have a life and a love of your own to attend to.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Would I have bought you a ticket on a plane leaving for Paris in two hours if I wasn’t?”

“You—” Methos began, and Cassie just started laughing at him, voice ringing out as merrily as a bell. Methos finally gave a resigned shrug and laughed, too. “I suppose I’m never in any danger of overstaying my welcome around you, am I,” he said, and took Cassie’s hands, looking deeply into her eyes. “Will I ever see you again?”

She nodded warmly. “Oh, yes. In much less time that you’d think. And next time, you’ll even bring company.”

“Joe?”

“Who else?” Methos started to speak, to ask more, but Cassie shushed him, pressing a slim finger to his lips. “Ah-ah-ah. No more questions, Johnboy. You already know all that you need to know. Now it’s time to go and get your reward. Be together. Be happy.”

Methos leaned forward and kissed his thank you. She let him.

***

Joe was waiting for him at the airport when Methos flew in. Given that he’d had no time to call and tell Joe he was coming, Methos might have been surprised by this, but he’d been forewarned. The moment he saw Joe, Methos stepped up close and drew a postcard out of Joe’s jacket pocket. This one featured an early photo of The Beatles, in all their youthful, black-suited, bowl haircut-ed glory. The back had a Nepali stamp and an inscription written in Cassie’s distinctive hand. “Joe Dawson: Yes, all you need is love, after all. Be at the airport on March 9th at 7 pm to pick up M. Oh, and you’d better get a good sleep the night before you do. Be happy—C.” It had been postmarked while Methos was still in Russia, long before he’d even realized he was going to Nepal. Methos smiled and tucked the card back into Joe’s pocket, looking up to see a very perplexed Joe. “Your friends just keep getting weirder and weirder,” the musician said.

“And you don’t even know the half of it,” Methos agreed. “But you will. Apparently the next time I go to Nepal to visit, you’re going to be with me. Cassie says she’s looking forward to it.” Methos took a step back, smiling as he took in the sight of Joe looking so well-rested and fed. “You look wonderful, Joe.”

“And *you* look too thin,” Joe answered back. “But wonderful, too. You always do.” Joe lowered his voice, not wanting to be overheard by the surrounding crowd. “Did you do what you needed to do?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re back for good this time?”

“Yes.” Carefully, aware that they were surrounded by strangers, Methos reached for Joe’s hand. “My wandering days are over, Joe. Unless you’re there wandering right along with me.”

“Good.” All Joe said was that one word, but the tone spoke volumes. He gave Methos’s hand a quick squeeze and withdrew. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

They picked up Methos’s baggage and grabbed a bite at one of the airport restaurants—Joe wouldn’t let them leave until Methos had eaten two large sandwiches and a huge bowl of soup—and then they caught a cab. Methos had expected Joe to still be living in one of the furnished flats the Watchers kept for agents on short-term assignments, and he’d already made an elaborate plan for how the still-presumed-dead Adam Pierson could sneak in unseen. But much to Methos’s surprise, the address Joe gave the driver turned out to belong to a completely unfamiliar set of row houses on a completely unfamiliar street. When the cab let them out and had driven away, Joe limped to the front door with a set of keys in his hand and a decidedly grim expression on his face. Methos frowned, wondering what had gone wrong now. “Joe?”

“Just come inside, please. There’s something I’ve been waiting to show you.”

Feeling apprehensive, Methos shouldered his well-traveled duffle bag and followed Joe up the walk. The rather drab, badly painted front door swung open…but when Methos walked through it, he found himself in a place he never would have imagined. The inner walls dividing three of the row houses had been demolished, creating one very large, very grand front room, with the original doors spaced evenly along the front wall. *Multiple entrances for troublemakers to get in*, Methos’s survivor’s mind noted clinically. *But multiple escape routes, too. Not a bad idea.* 

He spun around slowly, taking in the room’s other features. The large white walls. The many well-spaced spotlights, clearly intended to illuminate a collection of paintings. The similarly well-lit nooks that had been just as clearly made to show off sculpture. And the smooth, clean architectural lines that Methos loved, the cleanliness of space that would let his body relax and his mind journey free. Joe limped to his side. “It’s official,” he said quietly. “The Watchers want me to open up another bar here in Paris; the paperwork came through right after you left. And I thought…well, I didn’t know when you were coming back, but I figured that when you did, you’d want to stay in Paris for a while, too. So I started looking for a place where we both could be happy. I found this.” 

“So I see.”

“Yeah. I guess you do.” Joe started fidgeting nervously in place, and Methos finally understood the reason for Joe’s grim expression outside. He was worried that Methos wasn’t going to like it. “There’s lots more rooms in the back,” Joe continued anxiously. “Obviously I was thinking that this front gallery would be a great place to put your art collection, but that’s really up to you. There’s a nice room behind that door—” he pointed— “with some skylights that could work as your office, and a smaller one we could soundproof to turn into a studio for me. And of course there’s bedrooms and bathrooms and a kitchen and all that. Oh, and a library, too…” 

Methos said nothing. He just wandered around the room with small, slow steps, taking it all in. Joe’s fidgeting assumed seismic proportions. “Oh, for god’s sake, just say something,” he said in frustration. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Methos said. He touched one illuminated nook gently, imagining which of his treasures he would display there first. He glanced up. “The rent must be astronomical.”

“Not as bad as you’d think,” Joe said. “And I had some money put aside. We’ll be okay.” He started fidgeting again. “I signed the papers almost three weeks ago, started moving my stuff in. I know…I know I should have waited until you had a chance to see it too, but…”

“It’s perfect.”

“If you really hate it, we can break the lease, find someplace else. Maybe something closer to downtown…”

“Joe. You’re not listening. I already said it was perfect.” Methos left all the tantalizing possibilities of his future gallery behind and walked over to his lover, looking into his eyes. “It’s better than perfect. It’s *home.*”

Joe inhaled deeply. “You mean that?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“No.” Joe shook his head. “But I wanted to make sure.”

“Because of the rent?”

“You know damn well it’s not because of the rent.” Joe took a slow step forward, all nervousness fading as he looked Methos squarely in the eye. “I meant what I said, right before you left. This trip was the last time I ever plan on letting you walk away. So if this place doesn’t work for you, or if you’ve changed your mind about being with me, you’d better speak up now.” His eyes swept slowly over Methos’s body, from head to toe and back up to his eyes. “Because I’m never letting you go again.”

Methos swallowed. “And I’m never going to ask you to,” he said shakily, just as Joe pulled him down for a kiss—a kiss so passionately thorough in its claiming that it left Methos in absolutely no doubt of Joe’s intentions for him, both for the immediate future and for the rest of their lives. Methos melted into it, feeling the floor begin to swing beneath his feet, until the trembling in his knees forced him to break away. “Joe,” he said, trying not to shudder as Joe ran a slow hand down his back to the curve of his ass. “Please tell me that one of the things you moved in already was a bed. Please?” 

Joe chuckled softly. “Of course I did,” he answered. “It was the very first thing I brought. Right this way.” 

He led Methos out of the gallery, through a kitchen empty of everything but boxes and the bare minimum of dishes one man needed to camp out on his own, and finally into the master bedroom itself. Here, many more boxes were in evidence, stacked all over the floor. Joe clearly hadn’t wanted to unpack anything more than necessary before he’d gotten Methos’s approval for the house. But a classic captain’s bed frame was there—simple, elegant, and more than large enough for two—and Methos could see that Joe hadn’t skimped on the bedding. There were plenty of pillows and the duvet that lay on top was silky, soft, and utterly inviting. Feeling reverent, Methos maneuvered Joe until he was sitting on it, then sank to his knees in front of him. It only took a few seconds to undo the mortal’s shirt, and then Methos was pressing his lips against Joe’s stomach, feeling the musician’s muscles quiver as he tried not to laugh. Yes, Joe always had been on the ticklish side, hadn’t he? Methos pulled away, smiling as he let just the tips of his fingers dance teasingly over Joe’s sides. “Love you,” he murmured. 

“Love you,” Joe whispered back. Methos undid Joe’s belt, sliding it out of the loops and setting it aside with stylish slowness, before he reached for the zipper. Oh, yes. Joe was already hard for him, the beautiful cock deliciously swollen. Methos touched it lightly with his fingertips, feeling the heat, the rhythmic pulsing of Joe’s blood, and then he leaned down and ran his tongue along the length. So good. So wonderful. Just as perfect as he’d remembered. Face blissful, Methos took Joe’s cock in his mouth and began to suck, first gently, then with more passion as his hunger spiraled out of control—Joe tasted so wonderful and fit his mouth so well. Methos indulged himself for several moments, listening to Joe’s quiet, breathy exclamations of delight, then reluctantly pulled away. He’d have a lifetime to experience the perfect satisfaction that was making Joe Dawson come. Right now, he had more important work to do, like showing Joe just what he was getting for the next 50 years or so. Methos helped Joe out of his pants and legs--Joe eagerly assisted, although his hands were now just a little bit on the clumsy side—and then sat down on the chair Joe had been using as a luggage stand by the bed. Methos bent to unlace his hiking boots, sharing a knowing, tender smile with Joe as he did. Then he stood up and stripped off his shirt.

God, he was never going to get tired of this moment, when he had to close his eyes to pull his shirt over his head and then opened them a second later to find Joe staring at his body. It was as if the moment of temporary blindness gave Joe permission to just look at him, eye him voyeuristically without needing to worry about Methos’s reaction, and the naked hunger Methos always saw before Joe’s gaze quickly lifted back to Methos’s face always stimulated Methos’s own lusts in the extreme. Today he very purposefully turned around to prolong the moment, feeling Joe’s heated stare travel over the lines of his back and ass as he removed his jeans, lingering over the job so Joe would have plenty of time to look his fill. When he finally turned around, Joe was obviously affected. Not only was his hand fisted in the bedclothes as if he had to grab *something* or explode, his cock had achieved an even more impressive state of erection than it had under Methos’s tongue, now bobbing invitingly in mid air. “Fuck,” Joe breathed, still staring. Then his eyes went guiltily back to Methos’s face.

Methos hid his smile and assumed his very best Greek-athlete pose, shoulders back, one leg slightly in front of the other, feet planted solidly on the ground. “You don’t have to feel guilty about looking at me, Joe.”

“I just didn’t want you to think…”

“Think what? That you only want me for my body? That you have to be looking into my eyes for me to think you’re seeing *me*?” Joe nodded raggedly, face flushed. “I know better, Joe.” Methos slid a slow hand over his chest to his abdomen, drawing Joe’s gaze along with it. “It’s *all* me. Doesn’t matter where you’re staring, I know you’re seeing me. You always…” His voice broke. “You always have.”

Joe’s eyes suddenly became suspiciously red. “Even that first night?” he asked. “Even all those years when I completely missed what you were?”

“You missed how old I was. You didn’t miss *me*. You never did,” Methos answered, and damn, now his eyes had tears in them, too. He dropped his hand to his cock, throbbing insistently under Joe’s gaze. Joe sucked in his breath. Methos started to touch himself, slowly, carefully, displaying himself as much as trying to satisfy the hunger that was pulsing beneath his skin. His voice deepened, became more compelling. “So I tell you again, Joe Dawson: take a good look. Because this belongs to you. The body, and the heart that beats inside it. All yours.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “For forever, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Fuck,” Joe said raggedly, pulling himself to the edge of the bed. “Get your ass over here, I have to—” He didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence, and Methos was grateful for that, because he didn’t want to wait another second. He sped back to the edge of the bed, letting Joe’s hands grab his hips and pull his cock into his mouth. It felt so unbelievably good that Methos’s head began to swim. He gripped Joe’s shoulders with bruising strength just to keep from falling over, groaning as Joe took him deep in this throat. So it was for a few blissful, incredible moments, and then Joe was pulling away, hands urging Methos to turn around. A bit confused, Methos stumbled slightly as he complied, but Joe’s firm, insistent hands on his hips steadied him. And before Methos quite knew what was happening, his ass was being pulled apart, Joe’s beard was tickling his buttocks, and Joe’s tongue was tickling…oh. Oh, yes. Hot wet mouth sucking on his asshole, hot wet tongue licking its way inside—and Methos was now finding it even harder to keep his balance than ever, given that every single drop of blood in his upper body had suddenly migrated to his cock. “Joe,” he said urgently, moving Joe’s hands from his buttocks back to his hips, holding onto them for dear life. “It’s too good, you’re too good. I’m not sure how long I can stay like this without falling over.”

“Go grab the chair,” Joe whispered. “I’m going to need my fingers in a minute…” and at the thought of what Joe was going to use those fingers for, Methos let out a whimper. He managed to recover enough brain function to fetch the chair and drag it back to the bed, holding onto it for balance while he stood with his back to Joe. He felt a moment’s terrible nakedness and vulnerability when he spread his legs and leaned over, waiting…but Joe didn’t leave him hanging for long. He just grabbed a bottle of lube from the box next to the bed, and then his mouth was kissing the hollow of Methos’s back, connecting them while his now-slick fingers moved in slow, stroking circles over Methos’s entrance. “Oh, god,” Methos moaned, already needing more than that, already craving Joe’s cock so badly it left him weak. “Joe…*please*…”

“Hang on for just another minute,” Joe answered, voice very rough. “Want you so bad. Just…want to do this right…” The spiraling fingers stopped their slow caress and began to slide inside. Methos sobbed aloud as his body readily opened to admit them. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been craving this, Joe’s fingers inside his body, until he suddenly had it again. Joe waited for him to adjust, then began to fuck him with his hand, using a slow, steady, powerful rhythm that completely undid Methos’s mind. Hips rocking helplessly from the strength of Joe’s thrusts, Methos grabbed the back of the chair more tightly still and started babbling a broken stream of words, begging for harder, faster, more. Joe obliged him by slipping in another finger but would not speed the rhythm, and all Methos could do was hang on and move with him, feeling pleasure pulse through his ass with each slow, slippery thrust. At last Joe withdrew his fingers. “Come here,” he said. 

Methos didn’t have to be asked twice. He barely gave Joe time to lie back on the mattress before he too, was on the bed and had Joe straddled…and fuck, this really *was* being home, feeling Joe’s body under him and the silky comforter pooling around his knees. Methos let out a sigh of pure bliss as he sank down, eyes closing from the pleasure as Joe’s fat cock quickly pressed its way inside. “So good,” he said thickly as he began a slow ride, sinking and falling in time to Joe’s ragged breath. “So good, so perfect. You’re so perfect…”

“You’re the one who’s perfect.” Methos felt a gentle touch on chest. He opened his eyes to see Joe running a reverent finger over his ribcage. “So sexy, so beautiful. Beautiful, gorgeous, incredible man…”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Methos felt himself smile. “Beautiful, gorgeous, and incredible, huh?” he teased as he reached for Joe’s hands, lacing their fingers together just as he had the first time they’d ever done this, once upon a time in Seacouver. “Better look again, Joe. I am what I’ve always said I am. Just a guy…”

“Yeah.” Joe’s words were rough. “Yeah. Just *my* guy.”

And before Methos could say a thing in response…not that he would have known what to say in any case… Joe was pulling him forward into a bruising kiss, and Joe was straining against his stumps to force himself deeper into Methos’s body, and a startled Methos was fucking back even harder in response, filled to his limit as Joe’s thick cock rubbed deeper still. And then, so suddenly it surprised him, Methos was *there*, come spurting in an improbably high arc across Joe’s chest as he broke away from Joe’s mouth to gulp air. Joe shouted, face twisting in ecstasy as he came right after him…

…and suddenly everything was still, except for the ragged rhythm of their breath. Methos felt wrung out, every muscle limp with the power of the commitment they’d made and the passion they’d shared to seal it. He didn’t even notice their fingers were still laced until Joe lifted their hands to his lips and planted a tender kiss on Methos’s knuckles. “My guy,” he repeated quietly.

Methos gently detangled his fingers and lifted himself from Joe’s body. For a moment he felt empty and lost when Joe’s cock slipped free, then exquisitely happy and complete when Joe held out his arms. He slipped into them gratefully, resting his head on the broad strong chest. “Yours,” he agreed. 

“For the rest of my life?”

“I can do better than that, Joe. For the rest of *mine*.”

They held each other tenderly, passionately, for the rest of the night.

**~End Methos and Joe~**


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

“I’m ready to go anywhere  
I’m ready for to fade  
Into my own parade  
Cast your dancing spell my way.  
I promise to go under it…”  
~Bob Dylan, “Mr. Tambourine Man”

“When you give each other everything, it becomes an even trade. Each wins all.” ~Lois McMaster Bujold

****  
_~Katmandu, Nepal, Early Summer 1998~_  
~14 months later~

 

The telephone, a very recent addition to Cassie and Sandra’s Nepali home, had been ringing insistently for more than a minute. Methos, who’d been busy sharpening several of Mama Du’s old swords on the kitchen table, finally set his work aside to glare at Cassie and Sandra, who were laughing over a book together on the living room couch. “Don’t get up on my account,” he said, mildly annoyed that neither woman was making a move toward the phone. “Just because I happen to have my hands full of lethally sharp steal, there’s no reason for you two to interrupt your reading. No reason at all.”

Cassie, her arm wrapped around Sandra’s waist, gave Methos an impish smile. “Definitely no reason,” she said. “It’s for you.”

“Of course it is,” Methos said with a sigh. “Are you going to tell me who’s calling?”

“It’s your one true love,” Cassie answered. She frowned. “Better hurry, Johnboy. He’s had a really bad day.”

“Joe?” Methos rushed to the phone, checking his watch as he went. He wasn’t surprised that Joe was calling: he and Methos had talked on the phone almost every day since Joe had left Katmandu for Paris, ready to meet Duncan MacLeod and help out with this alleged apocalypse the Highlander was supposed to avert. But they’d carefully worked out a time for the phone calls that took into account Joe’s work schedule and the difference in time zones, and this wasn’t it. Methos snatched the phone of the hook. “Joe?” he repeated into the receiver. “Is everything okay?”

The hesitant pause gave Methos all the answer he needed, even before he heard the sad, frightened tone in Joe’s voice. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s okay,” Joe said. “I just needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”

Uh-oh. “Well, that’s easy enough,” Methos answered brightly, trying to lighten the mood. “Want me to sing? I take requests, you know. I’d prefer to stay away from the Monkees this time, but if you insist….” 

Joe’s laugh sounded hollow, forced, and completely unlike Joe. Very worried now, Methos carried the phone receiver to the opposite end of Cassie’s kitchen so he could at least have the illusion of privacy. “Okay, Joe,” he said quietly. “What’s gone wrong now? Is MacLeod…”

“Mac’s fine, for the moment at least. That singing bowl Cassie sent you to get from the monastery took him on some kind of funky head trip, but it seemed to help,” Joe answered. “It’s not him I’m worried about.” 

“Then what?”

“If I tell you, you’ll tell me I’ve gone crazy.”

“Have I ever?” There was another hesitant pause. “Joe, spit it out. There’s nothing so bad that we can’t face it together.”

“Yeah, well this might put that to the test,” Joe said unhappily. “Methos--I saw Ahriman.”

“You…” Methos stared at Cassie and Sandra, still curled together like love birds on the couch. He suddenly felt very frightened and very, very betrayed. Thus far, the two seers had been very cryptic about the exact nature of this evil MacLeod was supposed to be fighting: they’d used lots of phrases like “the indeterminate nature of reality” and “essential metaphoric truth,” and after a while Methos had given up trying to puzzle out what they really meant. But one thing he thought had been guaranteed…this Ahriman was not supposed to have any meaningful existence outside of Duncan MacLeod’s not-so-stable head. Otherwise Methos would never, ever have let Joe go back to Paris on his own. “What do you mean, you saw Ahriman?” Methos asked, heart thudding in his chest.

“He came to the bar last night, Methos. I saw him. He talked to me. And then, this morning, while I was still in bed…” Joe’s voice faltered, and Methos braced himself to hear something truly terrible. But what Joe said next was worse than anything Methos could possibly have imagined. “Methos, he gave me back my legs.”

The world wobbled. Methos listened as Joe continued brokenly: “He took them away again, of course, less than a minute later. But just for that minute—I stood up. I walked on my own two feet. I felt the carpeting under my toes…” There was a long silence, during which Methos could find nothing at all to say. He could only rest his head against the kitchen wall as his heart throbbed in silent, painful communion with his beloved. Finally, Joe cleared his throat. “Look, Methos. I don’t know what else our ladies still have in mind for you to do, but…could you hop on a plane? As soon as you can? I kinda--I just really need to see you.”

From the couch, still entwined in Sandra’s embrace, Cassie spoke. “Tickets are in the drawer under the phone,” she said softly. “Tell Joe you’ll be airborne in about an hour.”

“You know, I’m really starting to hate it when you do that,” Methos snapped, and realized too late the way this might sound to Joe. “Sorry, Joe,” he apologized quickly. “I was talking to our little know-it-all, not to you. Apparently the tickets have already been bought. I’ll be on the plane within an hour.”

“Good,” Joe said, and his relief was obvious. “I’m glad. I didn’t want to upset your work there, Methos. I just…”

“Need me,” Methos answered. “I know. Don’t apologize. I feel exactly the same way.” They exchanged a few more words, and then with a final “Love you. I’ll call you from the airport when I land,” Methos hung up. The second he had, he turned on Cassie. “You could have warned me!” he accused.

“You know better than that, Johnboy,” Cassie answered serenely. “I can never do anything I haven’t already done. All stories are already written, all paths already set…”

“Damn you, Cassie, we’re not talking about abstract metaphysical concepts now! We’re talking about Joe. *My* Joe. Specifically, my Joe’s safety and mental health. Ahriman was supposed to be MacLeod’s demon, not his!”

“Ahriman is everybody’s demon,” Sandra said, calmly getting up and helping herself to more tea. “He’s just manifesting in Duncan’s consciousness for the duration of the millennial battle.”

“Really. Then why is my lover suddenly seeing him too?” Methos demanded. “Cassie, you swore to me that Joe would be safe through all this Ahriman business. If you hadn’t…”

“You’d have bundled him up and run for Bora Bora. Yes, I know,” Cassie answered. Graceful as gazelle, she rose from the couch and moved to Methos’s side, her grey eyes wide and serious. “I couldn’t let you do that, Johnboy. But I didn’t lie to you, either. Joe *is* safe.”

“Oh, really. Then why is he having conversations with the personification of all human evil?”

“Because he’s living in Duncan’s reality right now.”

“That makes no sense!”

“It does, you know. It really does,” Cassie said gently. “Ahriman is fighting this particular millennial war on just one battlefield—the inner reality of Duncan MacLeod, his heart and mind. Originally, Joe wasn’t a part of that. But when Joe decided to believe in the fight—he told Duncan yesterday that he couldn’t believe in a demon, but he could believe in *him*—their realities became linked. Enmeshed.” Cassie raised her hands and brought them together, interlacing her fingers to illustrate. “Joe’s going to experience some of what Duncan does, now. Not all of it. But some.”

“That’s—” 

Methos stopped himself in mid sentence. He wanted to say that the whole thing was insane, and that he wanted no part of it. But it was too late for that now, wasn’t it? It had been ever since he’d first brought Joe to Nepal. Not that Methos felt he’d really had a choice about that, either… 

The last year had been a very hard one for Joe. First Richie’s death had broken his heart, and then MacLeod’s lengthy disappearance had just made everything worse. Methos had stood by, watching grimly, while Joe pulled every string he could with the Watchers to track Duncan down…but it was like the Highlander had vanished off the face of the earth. After several months of watching Joe sink deeper and deeper into despair, wondering each day if Duncan, too, had lost his head, Methos had finally booked the tickets for Nepal. He knew of only one person who could accurately tell Joe Duncan MacLeod’s fate. And at that point, even learning that the Highlander had lost his final Challenge would have been better for Joe than the constant torture of not knowing anything all.

But it hadn’t worked out that way. He and Joe had been met at the airport by a munificently smiling Sandra, who kissed them both on the cheek and hailed them as “the Champion’s Champions”. Then she took them home to Cassie, who had a very strange story to tell. Duncan wasn’t dead; he was just in retreat. And apparently preparing to save the world from a thousand years of darkness.

Methos admitted it freely. He’d found the whole Ahriman story extremely difficult to swallow. Especially when Cassie informed him that he’d have to go on a long, dangerous trek to a remote Himalayan monastery in order to retrieve an ancient singing bowl with allegedly mystical properties, while Joe returned to Paris to await MacLeod alone. Joe, too, had been skeptical. But during their last few conversations on the phone, Methos had heard a subtle change: Joe really seemed to think it was possible that Duncan knew what he was talking about, that there really was an unfathomable evil MacLeod had to fight. And if Cassie was right, that was what was putting Joe in danger now. “So Joe’s belief in Duncan translates into a belief in Ahriman, and that has brought Ahriman to life,” Methos said grudgingly. “Are you really trying to tell me that belief can be that powerful?”

“Joe’s is. At this time. In this place,” Cassie answered. “Don’t look so surprised, Johnboy. You figured out more than four millennia ago that belief was the only thing that brought demons to life.” She smiled ironically. “I’ll admit that this time that life is a little more…lively…than any of us are used to, but the principal’s still the same.”

“Why the hell couldn’t he have just moved a mountain or something?” Methos asked, and held up his hand. “No, don’t answer that. It wasn’t a serious inquiry. I’m just trying to make sense of all this.” He sank down into a chair. “His legs, Cassie. His legs. Do you have any idea how much pain that must have caused him, to feel carpet under his toes and then lose it again? This has gone too far, much too far. I can’t…” Methos’s voice broke. 

Silent as a ghost, Cassie moved to Methos’s side and pulled him close, cradling his head against her chest. Sandra spoke quietly from the kitchen. “Ahriman can’t create, Methos,” she said gently. “Not legs or anything else. He can’t destroy either. All he can do is twist and distort what’s happened already.”

“Oh really?” Methos gave a disbelieving snort. “Tell that to Allison Landry. And to Sophie Baines.”

“Sophie Baine’s suicide happened more than ten yeas ago, Johnboy,” Cassie said quietly. “So did the fire that killed Allison Landry. It was all an illusion. Ahriman just took the events of the past and re-planted them in Duncan’s mind. When you go back to Paris, you can check the police records if you don’t believe me.”

“But I saw Landry’s body!”

“No. You saw *a* body, lying outside a recently burned house that Duncan had been tricked into visiting. Allison Landry didn’t really live there, Johnboy. Remember, neither you nor Joe ever met her in person. The only person who did was Richie. Richie, whose faith in Duncan MacLeod and his reality was even stronger than Joe’s…” For a moment Cassie looked sad, then she gathered herself together. “I mean it, Johnboy. Ahriman’s power is really very small. He can neither create life nor destroy it. He can only manipulate you into doing that for yourself. Likewise, he can’t create new pain. The best he can do is play upon old wounds.” Methos stared at her. Cassie met his gaze solemnly. “And this particular hurt of Joe’s is an old, old wound,” she finished softly. “Believe it or not, it’s a good thing it’s coming to the surface now. Because the keys to healing it are in your hands. They always have been.”

“I—“

“Remember, Johnboy. Joe believes in *you*, too.” Cassie leaned down and brushed a quick kiss across his cheek. “No more questions, now. You had better go and pack.”

Methos didn’t ask any more questions—he was too shocked, and too frightened by Cassie’s implications to want to inquire further. But he couldn’t put the matter out of his mind, and when the plane had finally taken off Methos stared out the window and thought. About Joe. About wounds, new and old, great and small. About belief. And about little pockets of reality where the normal rules didn’t apply, where magic still ruled and great healing could take place…

The first few days after Methos returned to Paris, all was chaos. Duncan was locked in meditation on the barge for more than 72 hours straight, fighting his inner battle, and Joe was so worn out from watching over him that Methos didn’t dare to act on Cassie’s final words. Besides, what if he was wrong? What if he was being as demonic as Ahriman, raising Joe’s hopes only to have them dashed? But even after the demon had been defeated and life had more or less returned to normal, Joe did not. In fact his spirits seemed to sink further, carrying him perilously close to a full scale attack of clinical depression—and Methos knew he had to act, terrified of the outcome as he might be. “Joe? Get your things together. Grab your heaviest coat and enough food for a day in the country. We’re going for a drive.”

It took some doing, getting there. Joe raised his eyebrows significantly when, after hours of driving, Methos finally parked the car near what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary hole in the ground and started unloading the ropes and pulleys from the trunk. But his faith in Methos was such that he didn’t ask questions, not even when Methos securely strapped him into a climber’s harness and laboriously lowered him through the hole into the cavernous dark below. When Methos joined him on the cave floor, Joe was looking around himself in wonder, staring at the stalactites and the brilliant, unearthly blue light flickering in the distance. “What is this place?” he asked, voice hushed.

“It’s an island,” Methos answered, carefully un-strapping himself from the harness and making sure that the rope and all three of his backup lines were secure before he stepped away. He wasn’t about to take any of the chances he had last time, not with Joe. “It’s a little pocket of the world that time and history forgot. I wasn’t entirely sure I could bring you here at all, or that you’d see what I saw if I did. But if you can see the light…” Joe nodded, face wondering as he stared toward the glow. “It’s a special place, Joe, a place of peace and healing. I brought MacLeod here, after the dark Quickening.”

“You mean…this is where the Spring is?” Methos nodded. Joe frowned. “Why bring me here now?”

“Because—“ No, damn it, he was *not* going to mention Joe’s legs. Not until he knew for sure if this was going to work. “Because you haven’t been quite right, ever since I returned from Nepal,” Methos said instead. “Don’t try to deny it, Joe. You know it’s true. It’s like you’ve been walking around with a part of you missing lately. And the Lady here is good at restoring missing things. She gave Duncan back his humanity, once. And restored my memory of you.”

“Is *that* how you remembered?” Joe asked, astonished. Methos nodded again. Joe suddenly looked determined. “What do I have to do?”

“Just trust me. I’ll take you where you need to go.”

Together, the two men made their way over the rocky cave floor, carefully picking their way around the scattered stones. Methos was gratified to see that Joe’s courage never faltered, not even when he tripped on the uneven ground and Methos had to steady him. Methos carefully set his beloved back on his feet, heart swelling; maybe, just maybe, after today Joe would never limp again. The spring, warm and clean, pulsed gently as they approached. The air was heavy and humid, and Methos felt the most poignant sense of welcome, as if invisible fingers of fog were reaching out to stroke his heart and mind. “Methos,” Joe said softly. “The water…it’s talking. Do you hear it?”

“No. But I have in the past,” Methos answered. He nodded at the spring. “Joe Dawson, meet the Lady. Lady of the Spring, meet my beloved, Joe.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you really do have the weirdest friends,” Joe replied. Then his face got the pinched, strained, “am I going insane?” expression of a man who is hearing things he really doesn’t believe he should. Methos waited, and when Joe started looking less shocked and more consternated, he asked: “What’s she saying to you?”

“She says…she says that I need to walk into the water,” Joe answered. “She says that you can help lower me in, but you can’t come with me. I have to do that by myself.” He turned to Methos, eyes troubled. “Why?”

Methos thought, chose his words carefully. “I think…because this is your healing, not mine,” he said. “Some steps you just have to take on your own.”

“Yeah,” Joe agreed heavily. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.” He looked at the pond apprehensively, then seemed to make his decision. “What do I need to do?”

“Come sit on the edge. I’ll help lower you in from there.”

Awkwardly, Joe lowered himself until he was sitting on a rock near the pond’s edge, then scooted down from the rock to the cave floor itself. He looked very apprehensive as he swung his legs out over the water, but Methos stooped and wrapped his arms around his chest, helping steady him as he slid into the pool. The light became brighter, shining up at Joe invitingly. Joe swallowed. “You’re sure I have to do this by myself, huh?”

“I’ll be right here,” Methos answered. “If you trip, I’ll dive right in and haul you out. I promise.”

“Yeah. I know you would. But something tells me that your lady friend here wouldn’t approve,” Joe said. He straightened his shoulders determinedly. “Guess I just can’t trip, then.” Carefully, hesitantly, Joe started walking into the center of the pool, leaning on his cane even more heavily than usual as he steadied himself within the water. The light grew brighter with each and every step. Methos watched as a green mist began to rise from the water, thick and iridescent and lovely; he just got time to see Joe’s awed face before his lover was entirely cloaked from view, the glittering mist dancing around him in a brilliant unearthly show. Methos sat down to wait.

After what seemed an endless time, the light died away. The pool was once again just an ordinary pool, with just an ordinary man standing in the middle of it—but oh, the expression on Joe’s face. Methos could detect no trace of the depression that had so dogged Joe for the last few weeks, and his heart leapt. He rushed to the edge of the water, holding out his hand. Joe slowly slogged to meet him, and Methos pulled him out, water splashing everywhere as Joe flopped onto the cave floor. Eagerly, Methos knelt down at his lover’s side, hands fumbling to push up Joe’s pant leg. His heart almost stopped when his fingers touched familiar cold plastic instead of the warm flesh he’d been praying for. Oh. No. No healing, no miracle. But Joe’s face was still rapt; he was staring up at the cave’s roof as if he’d had the greatest revelation of his life, and Methos could almost feel the joy coming off of him in waves. “Joe?” he said curiously.

“Methos. That was…” Joe shook his head. “Incredible.” 

“She helped you?”

“She did better than that. She made me whole.”

“But—” 

Helplessly, Methos ran a hand down Joe’s thigh, over the transition from real leg to artificial one. Joe looked down, gave his familiar prosthetic ankles barely a passing glance. “Oh. That,” he said with a shrug. “Never mind that; I guess the Lady thought I was whole enough without them. No. This was about something much more important.” He smiled inwardly, eyes focused on something Methos couldn’t see. “I’m going to be immortal.”

Methos’s heart skipped a beat. Desperately, he strained every last one of his Immortal senses toward the body beside him, and felt…nothing. Not even the thready, easy-to-miss signature of a Pre-Immortal. “Joe,” he said carefully. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but…”

“Don’t look at me like that, you goof,” Joe said affectionately. “I didn’t say Immortal with a capital I. Just a little i. But that’s more than enough.” He smiled at Methos’s confusion. “Guess I need to explain, huh.”

“If you would,” Methos agreed. He helped Joe sit up against the rock by the pool’s edge and then sat down at his side, waiting. “Well,” Joe began. “I guess you know that something’s really been bothering me these last few weeks. Bothering me a lot. Ever since…”

“Ever since Ahriman,” Methos finished. Joe nodded painfully. A horrible feeling of certainty filled Methos’s soul. “Oh, Joe. He didn’t…”

“Offer to make me Immortal? Yeah. Yeah, he sure did,” Joe answered. “Right after he taunted me with what it would be like to wrap my legs around you in bed, he showed me some…some memories, I guess. He showed me what happened to you every time you’d lost somebody you loved, the way you hurt, the way you grieved. He showed me the times when you hurt so much that you Challenged every Immortal you ran across, hoping you’d lose your head…and then he asked me how it would feel to know I’d never have to put you through that. To be able to stay at your side. Forever…” Methos reached out his hand, heart aching in silence. Joe took it and squeezed it, roughly brushing away the moisture that had formed in his eyes. “I knew it was a con, of course. Even if Ahriman did have the power to make me Immortal, it would have come at a cost I wasn’t willing to pay. But it…well, it made me start wondering. Again. About whether I had a right to keep you, when this whole thing can only end in pain…”

“Oh, Joe. Joe.” In his mind, Methos heard Cassie’s voice: And this particular hurt of Joe’s is an old, old wound…and realized that she hadn’t been talking about Joe’s legs at all. The Lady was right. Joe had long since become whole enough without them. But this… “How many times am I going to have to tell you that you’re the one I want, mortality and all? That being with you is worth every single moment of pain I might feel down the road?”

“Oh, about a million times a day would be all right,” Joe said with a tiny smile. “But it’s okay now. It really is.” He looked at Methos seriously. “Do you remember what happened the night that Kristin died? No, don’t answer that. I already know you don’t. But do you remember what I *told* you happened? When your Quickening was so disturbed by Mac that it refused to settle back into your body?”

“Yes.” Methos bent his head in shame, looked unhappily at the small circular scars that would mark Joe’s palms for the rest of his life. “I burned you.”

“No. No, you didn’t,” Joe denied. “*Kristin* burned me. Once her energy had fully blended with yours, I was safe, even though you were still sparking like a firecracker. Your Quickening could never hurt me, Methos.” Joe’s face softened. “It made love to me, instead.”

“It what?”

“It made love to me, Methos. It touched me in my sleep, showed me things about you I would never have learned in any other way. And the Lady just told me that it left something behind, something that changed me a little. Not enough to heal my wounds, not enough to make me live forever. But enough to link us, enough to let me dream your dreams. And enough to let me do this.” Joe held out his hand, still slightly damp from the pond. “Touch me, Methos.”

Very confused now, Methos did. As his fingers tentatively touched Joe’s, the sheen of pond water still clinging to Joe’s skin gave a pulsing glow, and a tingly feeling filled Methos’s arm. Joe laced their fingers together. The moment their palms touched the tingling increased, traveling up Methos’s arm to his chest, filling his heart with warmth. And suddenly his mind was filled as well, overflowing with memories that weren’t his own. He gasped. “Joe?”

“It’s all right, Methos.” Joe’s voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “I’m just returning the gift you gave me, once upon a time. It’s okay. Just close your eyes and let it happen.”

Methos nodded and closed his eyes, letting the images and feelings dance inside his head. He saw a small boy playing with a smaller girl in a 1950’s Seacouver playground, simultaneously annoyed at being saddled with this sisterly nuisance and feeling an overwhelming protectiveness that made Methos’s heart swell, because it was so *Joe*. He saw the same boy, a young teenager now, watching Ed Sullivan on his family’s clunky old black and white TV. He heard the first glorious of chords of the Beatles’ “All My Loving” ring out and felt the boy’s soul come to life, somehow instinctively knowing that his entire existence, along with the entire world’s, had just changed. He saw a seemingly endless number of lawns being mowed and papers being delivered until Joe’s first guitar was purchased and lay in his hands, cool and curving and perfect. And then he saw the guitar being carefully laid in its case and entrusted to the now teenage, mini-skirt and love bead wearing sister as Joe prepared to go to war…

Methos told himself he shouldn’t flinch. After all, he had more than enough war memories of his own. He was no stranger to the atrocities mankind could commit. But the gore and the senseless cruelty seemed worse when witnessed through the eyes of a baffled 18-year-old boy, a boy who honestly hadn’t known that human beings could act in such a way. When Methos saw Joe’s boots trudging through the Vietnamese mud near a river, and realized that a certain land mine was just a few feet away, Methos almost pulled back. But Joe was offering him a priceless gift; to look away now would sully everything they were together, and everything they might yet be. Methos steeled himself, and watched those booted feet take their final step…

…felt the unbearable pain as the mine exploded and Joe’s body was tossed into the air, then a cold chill and sweet oblivion as he splashed into the river and passed out…

…felt pain of an even darker, still more unbearable kind when Joe awoke in the field hospital to find his legs broken beyond repair, and his spirit broke right along with them …

…and then saw the anxious, incredibly young face of Ian Bancroft inside that same hospital tent as he hurriedly flashed his Watcher tattoo, and Joe Dawson learned that Immortality might be something more than wishful thinking.

The memories came faster after that. There was the hair-tearing frustration of learning to walk on plastic instead of flesh. There was the pain of being called “baby killer” by protesters outside the VA. There was the despair of finally making it home to Seacouver only to discover that he no longer belonged there, that there just wasn’t a place for him amongst the family and friends who couldn’t understand how much he’d changed. But there were other things, too. The sweetness of Smokey making love to him in the hospital, teaching him that things like kindness and gentleness still existed, after all. The joy of discovering his fingers could still make music, and that pain had given his voice a new depth which ensnared audiences wherever he went. The glee of going to college on the Watcher’s dime and discovering that he had a brain better than anyone had ever given him credit for, a brain capable of inhaling huge amounts of learning and loving every second of it. Methos watched as Joe took each new small triumph and painstakingly pasted them together inside his soul, stubbornly using them to rebuild his broken heart…

…saw years go by as Joe worked his way up through the Watcher ranks, years filled with friendship and satisfaction, but with loneliness, too…

…until the day finally came when Joe was swearing at a pile of fallen encyclopedias inside a bookstore he had no idea how to run, and a certain dark-haired young man walked in.

Methos’s hand tightened in Joe’s as the kaleidoscope of memories spiraled through his mind. The first time they’d made love. The kiss they’d shared when Methos first returned after Jacob Galati’s death. And finally the breakfast they’d eaten together that very morning. The warm glow that had been flowing through Methos’s arm to his heart suddenly swept up higher, touching his eyes. He opened them, and with the gift of Quickening vision knew that he was seeing the real Joe Dawson at last, just as he had once seen the real MacLeod. But unlike MacLeod’s hard, shining sphere of a soul, the shape of Joe’s inner being did not come as a surprise. Joe’s spirit was a lamp, once broken but carefully repaired until it now shown more brightly than ever, the faint cracks just adding to it light. Methos could feel the warmth of it. He always had, shining in Joe’s smile, warming all his words. Right now, it was glowing particularly brightly in Joe’s eyes. “Mortals don’t have Quickenings,” Joe said softly. “But we do have memories, and now mine are yours. You’re going to carry the essence of what I am, every feeling and thought, for as long as you live. And that means that a part of me really *is* immortal. Because you are going to live forever, Methos. And you’ll carry me with you to the end of time…”

Methos pulled Joe to him tightly. Joe’s damp hands snaked up under Methos’s shirt as their lips met and they slid to the cave floor. And from the glowing pool, unheard by either man, there came a gently tinkling laugh.

  
**The End**

Methos and Joe’s adventures will continue in "Edge of the Ocean" and "House of the Novelty T-Shirts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedications!!! 
> 
> This story about two extraordinary men is dedicated to seven extraordinary women:
> 
> TO TOVIE, best of best friends—in humble thanks for all the laughter, phone calls, and pretty Peter Wingfield pictures in my inbox. ;) Thanks are also due for her insight into Joe and Duncan’s characters, fabulous explanation for Methos’s clothing color choices, and most of all for her incredibly deep thoughts about what really goes on during a Challenge, without which the later chapters of this story would never have been written at all. Thank you so, dear!
> 
> TO LIZ M., World’s Greatest Beta Reader—for correcting my tenses, fixing my wandering point of view, truncating my sentence length, and most of all for being the exquisitely brilliant, sensitive, inspiring woman that she is. Thank you so much.
> 
> TO MIKITO, for e-mailing and telling me she wanted more, and also for saying she was “willing to wait for good fic”. It’s a statement I have certainly put to the test, but just knowing you were out there waiting kept the creative fires burning. May every aspiring writer find readers like you!
> 
> TO SAM EMME, for caring enough to track me down when I disappeared from the fandom for a time, for proving that I wasn’t the only one who saw Methos and Joe as a viable pairing, and for making me put a condom in that first sex scene *G*. Most of all, thank you for printing the whole darn thing out when it was still a work in progress (and posting pictures of the resulting heap!) Your encouragement and comments have been indispensable.
> 
> TO T.F.L, for the music and the education,
> 
> TO CHRISTY MAE, my hot older woman friend, for the constant encouragement, loving kicks in the ass when necessary, and also for giving me my new pen name,
> 
> And finally TO MY MOTHER JEZZA, who will probably never read this, since I have yet to come clean and tell her that her daughter writes pornographic fanfic, but whom I love beyond all proportion and owe more to than words can say. In particular, she gets special thanks for being the “1960's female PhD candidate” who taught me (and thus Methos) to make Grad Student’s Chicken Soup. And also for teaching me that it was possible for some human beings to be as passionate about geography and map-making as I am about writing, which inspired this story’s sequel. Thanks to you, I will never stop learning, never stop growing, and never stop asking questions. You are the best.


End file.
